A Fire Most Fell
by theSilverChef
Summary: When a case hits too close to home, tensions rise and a catastrophic chain of events is set into motion. Mike learns that breaking his rule does more harm than good. Eventually Mike/Connie. Set in Season 21.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of these characters, they belong to NBC and Dick Wolf.

**A/N: **I've been watching entirely too many L&O reruns on my break from school...and this is the consequence. I hope that I can do the L&O universe and its characters justice with this (hopefully) exciting take on what could have happened in Season 21. For argument's sake, LOLA **_never_** happened :)

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><p>Amidst the red and blue glow that illuminated the dim city street, Detective Lupo flashed his badge at the patrolman. He ducked beneath the crime tape, shadowed by his partner. They were met by Officer Torres, one of the first responders. Noting the unusual amount of manpower on the scene, Lupo questioned, "What have we got?"<p>

"Homicide. Looks like the guy interrupted a rape-in-progress. Multiple stab-wounds to the chest and torso. SVU's here to talk to the female who was attacked," she nodded toward the ambulance a few feet ahead.

"Hey, Lupes," Bernard interrupted. "Does that look like the Lieutenant to you?"

Exchanging suspious glances, the duo curiously approached the emergency vehicle. "Hey, Lieu… What's going on?"

Lieutenant Van Buren turned her attention away from the indistinguishable woman, perched on the tailgate, huddled beneath a thick, gray blanket. "Detectives," she greeted, moving toward them. "We got a real messy one, here. You might as well get back in your car. SVU is taking over for the time being."

"Right, they'll handle the sexual assault, we'll handle the homicide," Lupo nodded, his gravelly voice accentuated by the onset of a cold.

"No," Anita put a hand up to emphasize her point. "This one's personal."

Lupo brushed past his superior, propelled by the spirit of inquiry, yet terrified of what he would discover. Bernard followed, irritated by the ominous ambiguity. The humid summer air turned to ice when they recognized the slight frame being gently interrogated by SVU personnel. Detective Bernard noted the heels that he had heard clicking down the steps of the Courthouse earlier that afternoon, now scuffed and shattered. She still had on the same skirt and blue sweater, now soiled by blood and wet earth. He felt sick to his stomach, a sensation that his partner shared, visibly. Lupo's face read disgust and ire; his fists were clenched with a hunger for revenge.

"We need to run a kit on you," Detective Olivia Benson explained, in her ever-solicitous style. "It can be overwhelming, so I'd like to go to the hospital with you, if that's okay?"

Connie peeled her gaze from the asphalt and nodded impassively. She briefly eyed her colleagues, but there was no indication of recognition. Her eyes were lifeless, their defining gleam eradicated by trauma. Detective Benson helped her up into the ambulance, and then shifted her assistance to Lupo and Bernard.

Before either could ask what had happened, Benson asserted, "Listen, I know you're angry, and you want to get this guy… but I need you to let me do my job."

"Let us talk to her," Bernard replied. "She trusts us."

"And I need you to trust me. I know what I'm doing. I'm more than willing to cooperate with you, but these next few hours are critical."

"Where's she going?" Lupo asked, accepting that as much as he wanted to find the bastard and make him suffer, this was temporarily out of his jurisdiction.

"Downtown Hospital. I'll be in touch." She lugged the doors shut, and the vehicle slowly edged its way through the maze of squad cars.

Lieutenant Van Buren reappeared, wielding a walkie-talkie. Her expression was stern, but the frailty of her voice revealed that she, too, was deeply distraught by the events of the night. "We got a possible match for our suspect in a drug store on 4th and Broadway. Check it out. And boys? Keep your cool. He's no use to us dead, and frankly, I don't feel like doing the paperwork."

Suppressing a poignant cry, she held her breath as her chief investigators rushed toward their Crown Victoria.


	2. Behind Closed Doors

**AN: I've had this scene in my head for a while. I feel like Dick Wolf never would have showed us Connie/Mike; it would only be alluded to. This could be a lost scene from "Rubber Room" possibly. I don't know… but this is how I imagine the culmination of all that UST would go down. **** I know it seems like a non sequitir, but it will all make sense later!**

**Also, I edited things a bit... trying to write a chapter late at night results in more errors, so I fixed my mistakes :) I can't stand writing romance/love scenes, so this will be the last time you see any of it in this story!  
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><p><em>Reade Street Bar<em>

_135 Reade Street_

_Friday, May 20_

Mike tottered slightly as he emerged from the men's room. He paused in the hallway, taking in the intoxicating view of Connie halfway across the pub. She was smiling, ear to ear, a rare occurrence. He watched her slide Detective Lupo's beer toward her and take a swig. She made a face at the bitter ale, and he leaned in closer, whispering something obviously amusing, as she let out an obnoxiously charming laugh. A ripple of envy permeated his chest. Feeling betrayed, he decided that it was time to call it a night. It was 10:30 on a Friday night, well past his usual bedtime. He summoned whatever composure he could, and approached the booth.

"It's getting late. I think I'm going to head out," he announced, earning a chorus of laments and pleas.

"Oh come on, Mike," Connie adopted an exaggerated pout, toying with her glass of Shiraz. "We never get to do this! Just one more drink?"

"No," he asserted, slightly taken aback by her request. She was clearly more interested in what Detective Lupo had to say. He didn't want to be a third wheel, or a fourth one for that matter. Bernard seemed to be an active part of the coquetry. "We have a lot of work to do on the Ezekiel case. I want to be able to get an early start. I'll see you guys around."

Mike found Anita and Frank, extolled his congratulations yet again, paid his tab, and disappeared through the front door. Connie nearly choked on her sip of wine, eyes widened with panic. "His briefcase! Excuse me, I'll be right back!"

She quickly slipped out the door, searching the block for Mike. He was nearly at the gate on Hudson. "Mike! Mike!"

He turned, hearing her frantic hollering. She jogged toward him, slightly out of breath. "Your briefcase? You left it in my apartment, remember?"

"Right," he nodded. "Bring it with you tomorrow? You are coming in tomorrow?"

"Judging by how many glasses of wine I've had," she conceded, "I'll probably forget. Let me just say goodbye real quick and I'll go get it, yeah?"

He considered the scenario briefly, and nodded in agreement. He walked with Connie back to the bar and watched through the window as she excused herself for the evening with long embraces and flushed cheeks. Earlier that afternoon, when they had arrived at Reade's, he had been surprised to discover that Connie lived in the apartments right next door. She'd offered to stow their belongings, citing that she didn't trust the atmosphere of the bar. It was suspicious enough that Lupo chose this particular venue, but through watching his interaction with Connie, everything became extremely evident to Mike. He recalled every time she had told him she was meeting someone for drinks after work—it must have been Lupo. Connie surfaced on the sidewalk a few moments later, slinging her coat over her shoulder. They walked in silence into her building, until they reached the elevator where she attempted to make small talk.

Connie jiggled her key in the lock, prying her door open. Mike followed her into the cozy apartment, a uniquely feminine scent of vanilla and cinnamon greeting his nose. A brown and gray cat vaulted off of the counter, and Connie absently apologized for the mess. Apparently she had a roommate, Natalie, who was gone for the week. She retrieved Mike's tote from the couch, inadvertently brushing his hand as she extended it to him.

"Thanks…" he uttered, inexplicably frozen in the entryway. Liquid courage drew a scandalous question from his mouth. "So, you and Lupo… you two…?"

"What?" Connie tilted her head, tugging her heels off and tossing them into the darkness of the living room. "Oh! No… nothing like that. Sometimes he and I go for a beer after work. Bernard, too."

Feeling slighted, Mike pressed on. "And that's different from me and you having drinks how?"

Connie rolled her eyes and padded to the refrigerator. "Mike… you're my boss, technically speaking. If it bothers you that much, though, then I'll extend the invitation next time."

"Officially, yes; realistically speaking, no. And don't bother. I don't want to interrupt the tryst. I should get going."

"Oh. My. God," Connie gasped, uncapping a bottle of water. "You're jealous!"

"I'll see you in the morning," he flouted her accusation. She set her beverage on the bar and sidled between him and the door. It was true, he was jealous. Mike Cutter had pledged that his personal and professional lives would never converge. Connie had made it extremely difficult to maintain this vow. He had always found her attractive, but one case in particular sent him over the edge. Watching her across the table in Judge Barclay's chambers, spewing legal jargon at him to win a motion had rendered him completely and utterly turned on. He'd met his match. He had attempted to curb the attraction, but no matter what she did, even almost throwing a case for ethical reasons, he could never get her out of his head. Now, her willowy frame was leaning against her door, palms flat against the cool wood veneer. "What are you doing, Connie… Don't do this. You're drunk."

"I'm not doing anything," she protested, clasping his tie.

"I'm your boss, remember?" he echoed sarcastically.

"Isn't this what you want?" He recoiled at her query. He had imagined this moment many times, but it never involved alcohol. Suddenly, Marcus Woll came to mind. What if this is how that debacle had started? What if she had been riffed out of her mind when she made the decision to sleep with him?

"Not like this," he slid out of her grasp, nudging her out of his way.

"I'm not drunk," she argued. "I'm just a little less inclined to say 'no.'"

"What?" he paused, his fingers gripping the doorknob.

"Look…Anita's announcement got me thinking that I'm not getting any younger. I'll be 32 next month, Mike. I spend so much time worrying about following the rules and getting a conviction that I'm allowing my life to just pass me by."

"So you want me to make you feel better?" he chuckled bitterly.

"No," she entreated, leaning against the wall. "I'm just tired of pretending…" Mike cautiously inched toward her. "I see you watching me through your office window…and I hear the change in tone when you say my name...I'm not an idiot."

"Connie," he whispered, pressing his lips against hers. Lazily they explored one another, knowing that they could never return from this point. With her legs locked around his waist, he followed the curves of her body, inching her skirt closer to her hips. "Is this what you want?"

"Yes," she moaned breathlessly.

With reservation, Mike slipped his hands under her thighs and carried her to her bed. Searching her lascivious gaze, again he sought vindication. "What if you decide this was all a mistake? What if things change?"

The lust in her eyes softened and she kissed him tenderly. "This is what I want. I need this. I…I need you."


	3. Exculpatory

**This might be the last update for a little while. I'm back in skill. Boo :P**

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><p><em>Office of EADA Michael Cutter<em>

_One Hogan Place_

_Friday, July 30_

"72 hours and not a goddamn lead?" Mike's face was nearly blue with anger. He brusquely tugged his tie from around his neck and shoved it into the top drawer of his desk.

"You got a suspect in lock up; as far as I'm concerned, we're doing our jobs," Bernard snapped. "And you can stop off that soapbox, Cutter, 'cause you're not the only one who's wearing this one close to the heart."

Ignoring the Detective's scrutiny, Mike continued his diatribe. "Where's my motive? Adam Parker has no priors, significant ties to the community, and an angry mob defending his innocence. Not to mention the judge who picked up this case is so far up this family's ass that he set bail at $500,000. That's chump change to them; he'll be out by teatime."

"We have him on surveillance leaving the bar with Connie, and I'll bet my pension that his DNA will be a match to the rape kit," Lupo concluded, fiddling with Mike's staircase diorama.

Shaking his head in dissent, Mike slipped off his suit jacket and hung it next to his Arsenal blazer. "A guy like Parker has socioeconomic stability and too much to lose. Why would he just wake up one morning and decide to spend the evening drugging up an ADA so he could rape and, presumably, kill her? And on top of that, brutally murder an innocent bystander? There's got to be a connection somehow, something we're not seeing."

"Maybe we're looking at this wrong," Lieutenant Van Buren suggested. "Maybe our 'innocent bystander' isn't so innocent. What do we know about Daniel Orozco?"

Bernard shrugged, flipping through his notebook. "No record, no family, lived two blocks from Connie's building, never late for work, decent credit… nothing out of the ordinary. Seems like he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Take a second look at Mr. Orozco's routine, see if you can find a link to Parker," Anita folded her arms across her chest. The detectives signaled their agreement and set off to continue their investigation.

Mike shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk. "How is she?"

"She's doing well, all things considered. A couple members of the SVU escorted her home last night; they're keeping tabs on her building, just in case," Anita responded hesitantly. She noted the misery in Mike's demeanor. "Look, Counselor… I don't understand her rationale, but I have to trust that her decision to not see you is valid."

"I should've been the first person you called that night."

"In situations like these, it does no good to think of the 'should haves' and 'what ifs'; it makes it almost impossible to start the healing process. Right now, we need to focus on putting this guy behind bars for the rest of his life."

Mike nodded, his jaw tense. Anita excused herself, and he collapsed into his chair, swiveling to gaze out his window. He heard his name called unceremoniously from Jack's office. Rolling his eyes and feeling the onset of a migraine, Mike trudged across the antechamber. In no mood for a scolding, he dolefully entered the lion's den.

"When I heard this morning that Mike Cutter received a contempt citation during arraignments, I found it amusing. You were clearly out of your element. But a second citation less than two hours later?"

"Nolan's lawyer was playing dirty, Jack. You know how suppression hearings can go."

"I don't care if she slaps you across the face with a rubber chicken—you show restraint."

Mike sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm a little distracted."

"We don't have time for distractions, Mike. We're one man down, with twice the caseload. Get your head in the game."

"I'm glad I have you to remind me about what's important," Mike observed, a bitter sarcasm in his tone. "Are we done here? I need to pay my fines."

"I hope you are not suggesting that I do not respect the austerity of the present situation. This office is a family, and one of our own was attacked. I will do everything in my power to see that justice is procured," Jack barked, his eyes stern and penetrating beneath his heavy brow. "You know damn well that if Connie were here, she would tell you to stop moping around and get to work."

The chirping of Mike's Blackberry breached the tension. He glanced at his screen. Feeling a wave of overdue fury and exasperation, he threw the device into the bookcase. Jack's expression was a mélange of sentiments, both indignation and pity. Cautiously he retrieved the cracked cell phone from the floor and set it on the arm of the couch where Mike was slumped, head between his knees. "Bad news, I take it?"

Mike sat up, revealing a face reddened by emotion and blood flow. "The DNA's no match…for Parker or Orozco. I'm back to square one."

"Be grateful that you know sooner than later. Dr. Rodgers did you a favor, expediting the results."

"It doesn't make any sense, Jack," Mike emphasized his words, tossing his hands into the air. "Connie left with Adam Parker at 11:15. The bartender and hostess both confirm that he was all over her, clearly looking to score. I'm supposed to believe that he suddenly changed his mind after dropping $185 on the bar tab? And even if he _did_ decide to go home to his fiancée, which is highly unlikely judging by his track record, what about Connie's friends? They let her leave with a man she had only met hours before? What is this world coming to? We see an attractive woman being taken advantage of, so we look the other way because, obviously, she deserves it…right?"

"Sadly, in some circles, it is still acceptable to blame a rape on the victim because her skirt was too short or simply based on the fact that she's a woman."

"Connie was too doped up to walk, let alone consent to sex. Someone was feeding her Rohypnol, but I can't stick it to Parker."

"There's your answer." Mike's features contorted with confusion. Jack elaborated, "Someone in that bar wanted to teach Connie a lesson."

"Why?"

"If I had the answer to that question, I wouldn't need you. I think you have your work cut out for you."

"Right," Mike admitted, springing to his feet and moving toward the door.

"First order of business," Jack proposed, gesturing at the damaged Blackberry in Mike's hand. "You're going to need a new phone."


	4. Water in My Lungs

_**AN: the only reason for the flashback in this chapter is because I feel like Connie really didn't have any grounds to have feelings for Mike until the episode "Innocence." **_

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><p><em>One Hogan Place<em>

_Tuesday, August 16_

As Mike walked through the labyrinth of filing cabinets, workstations, paper towers, and interns, he felt a peculiar collective stare that followed him into his office. He deposited his briefcase on his desk, catching one of the administrative assistants surreptitiously peaking at him as she breezed through the hallway. He searched his surroundings, looking for any explanation for the unusually somber environment. Jack's door was closed. Jack's door was _never_ closed. Mike leaned across the threshold and spurred Corina, the secretary, for information. "Where's Jack?"

"In a meeting," she fleetingly looked up from her notepad.

Curiosity piqued and somehow knowing whom he would find behind the door, Mike ignored Corina's foreboding and barged in on the conference. Sitting on the leather sofa, Connie instinctively hugged her khaki jacket closer to her body. Her legs were tucked up under her, her slim denim pants revealing an alarming weight loss. She eluded Mike's gaze. Jack was unfazed by the interruption. "How'd it go?"

"Uh…guilty," Mike announced. "On all counts."

"Good," Jack commended. "Connie's here to talk about rejoining us."

"Oh… Well I'll leave you to your discussion. I just wanted to let you know about the Makely verdict."

"I'm interested in your opinion on the matter." Connie glared at Jack with displeasure. He had a tendency to put her on the spot, and he was terrible at keeping things confidential with her. He was a champion for dialogue and catharsis, a trait he had undeniably acquired later in his life and career.

"I don't think my opinion matters to Ms. Rubirosa," Mike dismissed.

Connie finally spoke. "Natalie said you came by the apartment yesterday."

"I was in the neighborhood," his excuse was gorged with sarcasm and contempt.

"I asked you to respect my privacy."

"You asked me nothing," Mike faced her. "I heard about your Mike Cutter embargo from everyone but you. After the 20,000 odd hours we've worked together, you push me away think I'm going to go down without a fight?"

"I'd like to think that you at least have the decency to honor my wishes."

"Your rules have no rhyme or reason, and you're making them up as you go, Connie! Texting Lupo? Coffee with Anita? Dropping in to see Jack? But, I ask how you are and it's crossing the line? We're partners, _friends_, Connie… Will you not let me grieve for you?"

"Forgive me if I have no desire to seek solace in someone who looks at me like I'm Humpty Dumpty about to fall off of the goddamn wall!"

"You're a _victim_ of a heinous crime. I'm sorry, but I cannot pretend that nothing happened."

Connie rose to her feet, precipitating an ache in Mike's chest and stomach. She looked tired and gaunt, a ghost of the once bright and tenacious prosecutor. The battle scars across her face were slowly fading. "Jack, I'm ready to come back. Every minute I'm at home is another minute for me to remember everything that I want to forget. I _need_ to get back to work."

Jack's eyes twinkled slightly. "If that's what you want."

"You can't be serious," Mike opposed vehemently, causing Connie's frame to stiffen with annoyance. "When I was out for two weeks with H1N1 you were outraged that it wasn't a requirement to retake the Bar or submit to a psych-evaluation before I came back to work."

With that anecdote, Jack's eyebrows nearly receded into his hairline. "Connie, will you excuse us for a moment?" She wordlessly grazed past Mike. Jack began searching through the binders along his bookshelves, scouring the hoard of notes and documents. "Do you remember the Shepherd case?"

"Yeah. I got sick, so Connie took over first chair."

"Do you remember the name of Ethan Shepherd's girlfriend?"

Mike thought for a moment, wading through his mental catalog. "Yeah, Elisa…something."

Jack found a dog-eared copy of the Ledger. He flipped through the pages, honing in on a name. "Orozco. Elisa Orozco." Mike's eyes widened with comprehension. "After the verdict was read, Ms. Orozco had colorful words with Connie on the Courthouse steps. I'd forgotten about it until now." He chucked the periodical at Mike.

"Son of a bitch… If this is our mastermind, that still doesn't explain how Parker was involved, though. Or how Elisa and Daniel know one another. Bernard never found any records of family members for Orozco. With my luck... it's just a coincidence."

"It looks like requisite intent to me," Jack insisted. "Get Connie back in here. And, Mike? My advice to you is: sweep the pieces of your broken heart or pride or whatever it is under the rug. I don't have time to be a mediator or a therapist."

Mike walked back to his lair, a newly lit fire of theories reeling through his head. Connie was studying the whiteboard across the room, presumably attempting to get back into the swing of things. Mike thwarted her train of thought. "Jack's waiting for you."

Disgruntled, she began her trek back across the hall, but Mike extended his arm to obstruct her, slipping it across her abdomen and around her waist. She did not flinch, nor did she protest. She tolerated his need for closure or attachment; something convoluted like that. He rested his chin on her shoulder, and his words reverberated along her clavicle. "I won't pressure you to talk about anything. I won't ask how you feel. I won't even look at you, if that's what you want. But, please… don't shut me out."

"Mike…" She retreated, ill at ease in such a public forum. The intimacy was overwhelming and terrifying. "I'm sorry, but I can't. Please, just…leave me alone."

That collection of words, coming from Connie, was a paralyzing blow. Mike stood humiliated and exposed as she disappeared from view. The portal she had opened, only a few months before, was now sealed shut.

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><p><em>Riker's Island<em>

_Tuesday, March 8_

_The walk through the parking lot was unpleasantly silent, amplified by the scratching of shoes against gravel. Connie eyed Mike warily, his face etched with determination and slight disgust. "Hey, maybe I should drive?"_

_He snapped out of his stupor. "I'm fine."_

"_Mike…" she coaxed, slipping her fingers around his and prying the keys away from him. He melted into her feminine touch. Surrendering to her gentle coercion, he took the passenger seat._

_The drive back to Hogan Place was just as quiet, though not uncomfortable or strained. Before Connie could unlatch her seatbelt, Mike was already out of the car, walking toward the elevator. Connie followed hurriedly, her heels echoing loudly in the parking structure. "Mike! Wait!"_

_He indulged, slowing his pace. "Stop," she ordered, taking hold of his arm. "Hey…are you going to tell me what that was about or do you want me to make up my own theory?"_

"_What?"_

"_Stuber called me a spic, and you flew off the handle."_

"_It was a bluff, Connie. I knew the kid would take the deal; he just needed a little persuasion. Don't read into it."_

"_Mike!" Connie prevailed, rushing to cover the elevator call button before he had a chance to press it. "I don't believe you. That anger was real…and, apparently, blinding. You were willing to play Russian roulette with your license."_

"_Okay, fine. That arrogant piece of shit thought he was going to skate. It's been a long day, and a long trial for that matter, and I lost my cool. Maybe I didn't have everything planned out, but it worked."_

"_So, you're saying that none of this had to do with the fact that someone was picking on me?" she teased. _

"_No, of course not. That would be unprofessional." Mike held her gaze as he took her hand and slid it away from the button panel, moving closer to her than necessary. _

"_Good," Connie nodded, suddenly feeling warm and faintly queasy. "I'm glad we cleared that up." _


	5. Trial and Error

_Office of the Manhattan District Attorney_

_One Hogan Place_

_Monday, May 23_

_Mike was midway through pouring a cup of coffee, when Jack swept past the break room, pitching his order. "In my office. Now." Mike sheepishly placed the carafe back onto the metal plate, ignoring the meddlesome peers of his coworkers. He barely had time to make it into the office before Jack closed the door forcefully behind him. The aging DA removed his trademark hat and hung it on the coat rack, moving at a deliberate pace to elicit a nervous sweat from Mike. _

_Taking a seat at his desk, he began, "I called you on Saturday."_

_Confused by the statement, Mike checked his cell phone. "No, you didn't."_

"_I called you here on Saturday. But, the funny thing is…you weren't here." Jack's tone was calm and unadorned. He slipped on his glasses and glanced at the _Times_, waiting for Mike's response. "It isn't like you to abandon a chance to get ahead on a case; something very important must have come up. Would you like to hear my conjecture?"_

_Still concocting an alibi and almost hoping to find one in the contents of his coffee mug, Mike shrugged. "Um…I'm sure I'm going to hear it either way." _

"_I think that you had one too many Tom Collins, and that you didn't go home alone. Maybe, you didn't go home at all."_

"_Jack," Mike wheedled unconvincingly, "it was a Friday night. On average, I work over 80 hours a week. I'm allowed to leave my persona here at the office and attempt to have a life every now and then."_

"_Just tell me that it wasn't Connie," Jack prayed. Neither affirmation nor denial followed, only an incriminating glance at the carpet. "Damn it, Mike! What the hell were you thinking? What the hell was__** she**__ thinking?"_

"_You're hardly qualified to be casting the first stone here, Jack."_

"_My perspective is more than relevant; I know firsthand how messy this can get."_

_Mike propped himself on the arm of the sofa. "You don't have to worry. It's over. Connie already made it clear that it can never happen again."_

"_Good. At least one of you is thinking with your brain. What happened to you not getting involved with people you work with?"_

_Taking a lingering sip from his cup, Mike considered the question. Not long before, he was on the other end of this conversation, dishing out the lecture. He recycled Connie's (more virtuous) words. "It's life, Jack. Shit happens."_

"_Well, not under my watch," Jack warned._

"_You're being unreasonable, and, I have to say, slightly offensive. Your liaisons were hardly kosher, and yet you're acting as if my weekend was the Seventh Sign."_

_Hunting for the appropriate words, Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let me make myself clear… In 20 years, I imagine you'll be sitting at this desk. I see a lot of myself in you, Mike. Why do you think I expect so much from you? Your mission or vocation, whatever you want to call it, is to seek justice for those who cannot acquire it on their own. I am willing to give you free reign when it comes to innovation and strategy, but you have a habit of overstepping your boundaries. So far, the hits you've taken to your reputation have been minor; 'egotistical', 'calculating', 'arrogant'…I've even heard 'hermit' and 'sociopath'. But, if you choose to go down the path toward 'shameful' and 'philanderer'…I can't protect you. I can't have you throwing a case or being sanctioned because you've obscured the line between personal and professional."_

"_Okay, point taken," Mike bluffed, insulted by the intimation that he was an amateur. "Are you going to give Connie the same speech when she gets here?"_

"_I have a feeling that her guilty conscience is punishment enough."_

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><p><em>Manhattan Supreme Court<em>

_60 Centre Street_

_Wednesday, August 25_

Though his mind should have been focusing on Henry Friedman's testimony to the Grand Jury, Mike was hardly observant or circumspect. As far as he was concerned, the hearing was simple decorum; an indictment against Friedman was inevitable. The empty chair on his right expropriated his attention. Connie had yet to show up, and the lack of activity from the Blackberry in his pocket was unnerving. The assembly broke for lunch, and Mike welcomed the freedom of the corridor. He immediately retrieved his phone and began drafting a message to Connie. Before he could hit "send", he detected an unmistakable presence in his peripheral vision.

"Where have you been?" Taking the ballistics file she rendered, he successfully disguised his fear with irritation and condescension.

Taken aback by his acerbity, Connie arched her brow. "I had an appointment; it ran a little long. Do I need a doctor's note?"

Mike studied her momentarily, and then withdrew his posture. "No. I'm sorry. I was just expecting you earlier… that's all."

"Well, you're going to have to do this one without me. I've got to go talk to Jack."

Her tone was ominous and laden with implications. Knowing that he was breaching their agreement, Mike pressed her for an explanation. "Everything okay?"

"Yes," she replied curtly. "Text me the ruling."

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><p><em>Monday, August 30<em>

_27__th__ Precinct_

_Uptown Manhattan_

Connie stood behind the glass, arms folded across her chest. Mike sat in the interrogation room with Detective Bernard, pressuring Aimee Harris, a potential witness in their case, with what Lieutenant Van Buren liked to call "legal persuasion." Friedman's defense had filed a motion to exclude all ballistic evidence. Mike and Connie went into the motion hearing the Friday before with little hope. David Haig attested that a brief computer glitch had interrupted the evidentiary chain of custody, therefore impeding due process for his client. Unfortunately, Judge Barclay was a stickler for due process. Now, Aimee Harris was the DA's last shot at a cold-blooded killer. Mike emerged from the meeting, a grim expression on his face.

"She won't budge. You'd better start drafting a subpoena."

"She's scared, Mike…" Connie reasoned, resting against the window ledge. "Why don't I talk to her?"

It took less than five minutes for Connie to gain Aimee's trust and extract a statement. The prosecution now had a star witness and a new momentum. In Lieutenant Van Buren's office, they discussed a plan of action.

"Ms. Harris is saying that Friedman was dispensing counterfeit drugs," Mike leaned against the filing cabinet.

Flipping through the victim's file, Connie spotted a key piece of information. "Jason Lawrence used to work in a mail-order facility for RxCorp…the pharmaceutical company."

"Maybe Lawrence was the supplier," Mike proposed his theory. "Why kill him, though?"

"We know that Henry owed a lot of money to Frank Contadino. If he was only targeting certain patients, what if it was a hit list?"

"A pharmacist headsman working for the Mob," the Lieutenant proclaimed with disbelief.

Mike eyed Connie with satisfaction. "Let's prove it."

The blinds rapped against the door, as it swung open. Detective Lupo appeared with a greasy brown bag. "Hey Lieu, you hungry?"

"Not if you brought me another cow tongue burrito."

"It's chicken, Scout's honor," Lupo smirked, setting the bag on the desk.

The scent of cumin, cilantro, and rancid oil was accosting. Without warning, Connie capsized into the small black trash bin beside the desk, heaving violently. The Lieutenant shot up from her chair and stooped at her side, glancing up at Mike and Cyrus with uneasiness. Connie's bout of sickness ceased, replaced by labored breathing. Anita squeezed her shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"I…I think so. I'm sorry."

"It's okay... Are you sure you're alright?"

Mike watched the exchange with dread, the gravity of the circumstances dragging his heart to his stomach. He said nothing of his realization on the trip back to Hogan Place, sensitive to Connie's mortification. She had established a tacit blockade, a strictly platonic working relationship. He had accepted his role, and for the rest of the afternoon, he kept to himself, occasionally acknowledging her presence at the desk adjacent to his. Nearing six o'clock, he felt pangs of hunger that lured him to a restaurant in nearby Chinatown. He returned to his office and planted a Styrofoam cup of soup in front of Connie.

"Thanks… I'm not very hungry, though," she pushed the container away, shifting in her chair.

"Just try it. It's got ginger in it. I read somewhere that it works wonders on nausea." His words caught her off guard, and their eyes met. She chewed her bottom lip, desperately attempting to remain in control. He crouched in front of her and took her cold hands between his rough palms. She leaned forward, plastering her tears onto his shirt collar.

"I've been _robbed_... of everything," she sobbed. "Everything, Mike. How…how are you supposed to give a child a normal life when every time you look at them, you're reminded of something _terrible_?"

"Whatever your decision is," he soothed, "I'm here. And if you don't want me, then you have Jack and everyone else. You're not alone…you don't have to do anything alone."

"Why me?" her plea was nearly inaudible.

"I'm going to find him, Connie. And when I do, he will rot in prison. I promise."

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: <em>**_So I didn't really want to go the baby route, but__ we know that the writers were going to incorporate Alana de la Garza's pregnancy into the show..._._ don't kill me!_


	6. Like a Sieve

_**AN: Sorry, this chapter is super short. I wanted to get it all out of my head before I disappear into sugar-induced-Halloween-oblivion with my two-year-old. I promise the next one will be longer and you might even get some answers! **_

_Tribeca Abbey_

_121 Reade Street_

_Saturday, September 4_

The sixth floor corridor of Connie's apartment building was crowded with police personnel. She stared at her front door with dismay; menacing yellow tape was weaved across the frame. The events of the past hour flashed rapidly through her mind: coming home from a shopping trip to Staten Island, her roommate standing over a blood-soaked body wielding an equally saturated kitchen knife, the familiar eyes of the lifeless man, the fear, the confusion... A black body bag charioted by a stretcher rolled past, sending a shiver down Connie's spine. Detective Bernard approached her with caution. "You sure that's him?"

"Yes. It's him. I'll never forget that face."

"Okay. Do you have somewhere you can stay for now until we get this sorted out?"

"Um…I…I don't know."

"Why don't you come to the precinct with us…just hang tight until we can get you set up with a hotel?" Connie allowed Bernard to escort her downstairs and into the patrol car. Once Uptown at the station, she parked herself at Lupo's desk and nursed her migraine with a cup of tea. She answered their questions, at the same time devising a list of her own.

"I don't understand… Does this mean that Natalie had something to do with what happened to me? I've known her for _years_… we met when I was teaching Kindergarten."

"Have you had any recent arguments? Anything out of the ordinary happen?" Lupo noted Connie's you're-joking-right expression. "I mean, besides tonight."

"No… she hasn't been around much for the past few months. She works long hours at a special education school across the river."

"She never mentioned her boyfriend to you?"

"I knew she was seeing someone… I never pitted her type to be a rapist, though." She closed her eyes, hoping to will away the three-ring circus of perplexity parading through her head. "What the hell is going _on_?"

"Just relax, Connie," Bernard reassured her. "We're going to figure things out."

A tuxedo-clad Mike surfaced from the entryway, fatigue and concern sculpting his demeanor. He had been with Jack at a fundraiser affair. "I was stuck giving a speech. I came as soon as I could. Are you okay?"

"Yeah… just a little shaken up," Connie nervously stroked her upper arm. Lupo and Bernard exchanged knowing looks, and they departed for the interrogation room. "You didn't have to come, Mike. I'm fine, really."

"I was 15 blocks away, and your apartment is a crime scene," he felled her ridiculous, albeit expected, downplay of the situation. "Do you have someplace to stay?"

"Anita's going to get me a hotel."

"You called me." He sat on the desk, his coat slung over his arm. He leaned close to her, his hair falling across his forehead. "I'm supposed to believe that you didn't want me here? That you don't want me to tell you that you can have my bed, and I'll crash on the couch?" She dodged his piercing blue eyes. "Connie, come home with me. Please."


	7. Turning Tables

**AN: ****Just to cover my butt, again, I own none of these people! Except Natalie and her dead BF :) Dick Wolf is the master and commander of all. **

* * *

><p><em>Arraignment Court<em>

_Monday, September 6_

"Docket number 652-501, The People v. Tremblay, murder in the second degree."

Judge Madeline Drake glanced at the agenda and asked, "How does the defendant plea?"

"Not guilty, your honor," Natalie stated flatly.

"Very well…. Mr. Cutter, I am surprised to see you here. I thought Ms. Rubirosa had returned to work?"

"She has, your honor. However, the circumstances of this case forced her to recuse herself."

"It's a small world… What is the People's stance?"

"Your Honor, Ms. Tremblay impaled her boyfriend with a kitchen knife 11 times, and she is the sole thread in an ongoing rape and murder investigation. We request remand."

"My client," Erica Gardner interjected, "has no criminal record, strong ties to the community, and her actions were clearly within the scope self-defense."

"The defendant conspired with the deceased to assault a District Attorney," Mike countered.

"Your honor, Mr. Cutter is forgetting that this is an arraignment, not a platform for speculation. My client is neither a cold-blooded killer, nor a flight risk. She is employed full time as an administrator of a school for special needs children."

"Touching," Judge Drake remarked. "While I am inclined to agree that polemics should be saved for the trial, I find discord between self-defense and overkill. The defendant is remanded."

* * *

><p><em>Bayview Correctional Facility<em>

_550 West 20__th__ Street_

_Tuesday, September 7_

"I swear... I don't know anything about what happened to Connie. She's my friend…I would never do anything to hurt her! I told you, Greg and I were broken up. He found out I was already seeing someone else, and he got angry. He was jealous. He was going to kill me!"

"I'm not buying this innocent schoolteacher act, Ms. Tremblay. There are no signs of a struggle or defense wounds, and we have a neighbor who gave us a summary of your argument with Mr. Koehler. 'You betrayed me'; 'you screwed everything up'; 'you're a dead man'… Does any of this sound familiar?"

"They're lying!" she sobbed.

"I think that you had something against Ms. Rubirosa. You really wanted to get her, so you employed your idiot boyfriend to do your dirty work. Right now, you're looking at 25 to life without parole unless you talk. Tell me the truth and I'll consider a deal."

Natalie glared across the metal table, her curly red hair lumped into a thick braid. She beckoned her attorney and whispered something in her ear. Erica nodded and folded her hands in front of her. "10 to 25 _with_ parole, and my client will give you Adam Parker."

"Adam Parker is a pawn. No deal."

"Then, Mr. Cutter, we'll see you in court."

* * *

><p><em>Later that evening…<em>

_The Apartment of Michael Cutter_

_71 Broadway_

Connie heard the lock on the front door click open, but she did not bother to acknowledge it. The cushions of the couch had molded perfectly to her shape. She hugged her bottle of water to her chest and ignored the numb fire of stasis that coursed through her neck and shoulder. Mike tossed his keys onto the counter and sifted through his mail, commenting about the frivolity of her choice in television entertainment. Still rooted to the sofa, she responded defensively, "My job is very cerebral… I don't want to think when I come home."

Feeling self-conscious about the connotation of "home", Connie sat up to gauge Mike's reaction. Apparently unfazed, he was foraging through his refrigerator. She knew that he was a "normal", in the broadest sense of the term, person. Yet, somehow, seeing him do "normal" things in his private environment was alien to her. She felt like was overstaying her welcome, like she shouldn't be privy to his routines. "Hey, I talked to someone with Decontamination today… I should be able to go back to my apartment tomorrow."

Mike, still garbed in his overcoat and scarf, paused midway through a sip from the orange juice carton. Averse to revealing his sincere feelings, he momentarily borrowed his courtroom affect: cool, calm, and collected. "That's good. I hear that violent crime cuts the rent in half."

"I wish," Connie groaned. "It's going to be a bitch finding a new roommate. You can't trust anyone these days."

Not caring to sustain the topic of conversation, Mike switched gears. "Speaking of cohabitants, Natalie isn't talking."

"I thought we agreed not to discuss the case."

Mike left the juice carton on the counter and slipped off his jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch. He sat on the arm, running a hand through his hair. "You told the detectives that she hadn't been around much."

"Right," Connie replied, her tone clipped with annoyance.

"How much did she know about what happened?"

Shifting in frustration, Connie crossed her arms over her chest. "Nothing, really." She tore herself from her seat and paced in front of the television. "Why? What are you asking me?"

"I did some digging, and I found out that Natalie has been visiting fertility clinics for the past 18 months."

"Okay… She wanted kids. What's your point?"

"Whatever Natalie's beef with you was, whatever her intent… I don't think that _this_," he gestured toward her stomach, "was a part of the plan. You were supposed to wind up in the morgue, not the maternity ward. As far as she's concerned, that baby should have been hers."

Connie shook her head skeptically. "I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that someone, who I considered to be a friend, tried to kill me. Now, you're telling me that she turned around and murdered her accomplice because he took a little artistic license?"

Lost among the cogs in his mind, Mike mused aloud, "I still have to tie Natalie to Adam Parker and Elisa Orozco. If I find any snags, then I have your testimony to influence the jury."

"Just hold on one minute," Connie contended, her eyes flashing with anger. "I'm not even sure that I want to take the stand."

Mike's jaw slacked, as if he had been punched in the face. "What do you mean? Connie, you're my coup de grâce… If you don't testify, the jury will buy the Mother Teresa act that Natalie's got down pat."

"Mike, we're working on three other cases right now… I've got a $2500 rent bill to worry about, doctor appointments, not to mention figuring out whether to continue this pregnancy or not…"

"Connie, I'm asking you for help, here. I don't want this to come down to red-tape and duress."

"Arrest me as a material witness, if you have to," she asserted. "Until then, for my own sanity, my answer is no."

Mike gaped in disbelief as Connie retreated to the bedroom. The initial shock ushered in outrage and resentment. If she refused to cooperate, he would be forced to compel her testimony. Blinded by anger, he trudged to the hallway. He shoved open the bedroom door, ignoring the sight of her slipping on a different shirt. "If you weren't the victim, you would be doing everything in your power to keep this case afloat."

"Mike, don't."

"I'm sorry for what happened, Connie, I truly am… But don't mistake clemency for weakness. Don't think that I won't use any means necessary to win this case, just because I care about you."

"You're digging a hole, Mike, and my testimony will only make it deeper!"

"What are you talking about?" Indigo veins bulged beneath his temples.

"Natalie was my friend, and friends tell each other intimate things... What's going to stop Natalie from telling her lawyer that you and I slept together? I'm not willing to have my sex-life publicly dissected, _again_! And you _know_ that's exactly what Gardner will do."

"If Gardner so much as implies that the rape was your fault, or that sex with Koehler was consensual, _or _that our…impropriety… has anything to do with _any_thing, she will be committing career suicide."

"She doesn't have to imply anything. One look at my past, and the jury will have reasonable doubt." Connie slumped onto the mattress. Mike joined her, placing a reassuring arm around her shoulder.

"We won't let that happen, then." Connie sidled out of his embrace and moved for the door. "Where are you going?"

"I need to take a walk, clear my head." She tugged at the sleeves on her turtleneck.

"I'll go with you. I could use some air."

"No…" she scoured her thoughts for the most finite response. "I need to be away from you for a while."


	8. I Dare You to Let Me

**AN:** **_Sorry, I've been a little behind on the chapters. I've had a few essays/tests lately. Anyway, this chapter is really really short, but it packs a punch. I'll update again soon with something better! :)_**

* * *

><p><em>Continued…<em>

Connie's knock at the apartment door was met with no response; she tried the knob to find that it was unlocked. She felt like a teenager sneaking home after breaking curfew. The wood floor amplified her guilt with every step toward the living room. Mike's silhouette was harsh and weary in the writhing glow of the television, a nearly empty glass of Scotch nestled precariously in his right hand. Nervously moistening her dry lips, Connie sat next to him on the couch. "I'm sorry, Mike... You've been nothing but kind and supportive, and, for some reason, I'm punishing you for that. I just want all of this to be over, and if absolutely takes my testimony to do that, then so be it."

Mike set his glass on the side table and shifted to face her. "Connie, everything I've done, everything I'm _doing_, with this case…it's for you. If Natalie walks, I'll never forgive myself."

"I wouldn't think less of you if you offered her a deal."

"That's the easy way out, Connie, and you know it."

"What's wrong with that?" she turned away from him, removing her knit cap and gloves. "Be realistic, Mike. You have nothing on her. None of this makes _any_ sense, and I'm not sure that we'll ever put the pieces together."

Lacing his fingers through hers, he commanded her attention. "I'm not going to give up."

"I know," she sighed. The illusive wall she had built between them abated, and she met his gaze. His blue eyes bled desire and a fragile resilience. She shrunk away from the voracious fervor. "Please don't look at me like that."

"Connie," he pleaded, his voice thick with weary despondency. He closed the distance between them, resting his chin atop her head. She surrendered to the embrace, her knuckles white as she zealously clasped his shirt, hanging on for dear life. She thought of their night together in May—how he had satisfied every unspoken urge. It was terrifying. In her profession, making time for courtship and love was nearly impossible. In a moment of weakness, she had exploited familiarity, only to find that there was a deeper connection. It didn't matter, though, that their bodies fit together perfectly or that she hated sleeping alone. To indulge the greater good, they could never be together. So, she had reneged on her promise. Yet, in spite of her crushing his spirit like a can of diet soda, he was still at her side. Overcome by a torrent of affection, she slipped out of his arms and inched toward his lips, framing his face with her delicate fingers. He held her at bay, and she panicked. Had he come to his senses, or was he simply disgusted by her? Who could blame him? She was a woman defiled. He studied her features in the dim light, appraising the situation. With bated breath, she waited for the (merited) rejection. His words startled her. "Please, stop running. _Let_ me be in love with you, because, God help me, I am."

She melted with the feverishness of his kiss, feeling safe and invincible. Mike's thoughts, however, were racked with guilt.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Mwahahaha I love cliff-hangers!<strong>_


	9. Black & Blue

_The Office of EADA Michael Cutter_

_One Hogan Place_

_Thursday, September 16_

_Thwump!... Thwump!... Thwump!..._

Mike lounged on his couch, tossing his baseball into the air with one hand and catching it in the glove on his other. His eyes were closed, relishing the victory he had obtained in the courtroom earlier that day. A knock at his door canceled his congratulatory party.

"I heard the news," Jack entered, an unreadable expression on his face.

Mike sat up and tossed his mitt aside. "Henry Friedman's incriminating testimony was music to my ears."

"Congratulations. Looks like you have that one in the bag." Jack shut the door, signaling for Mike to stand. Mike nervously tugged at the waistband of his Dockers, unsure of the grounds for whatever lecture he was about to hear. "I understand that you added Connie to your witness list for the Tremblay case. I'm surprised she agreed to it."

"The benefits outweigh the risk," he reasoned.

"Are you sure about that?" Jack sat on the edge of the desk, folding his arms across his chest. "Be the jury for a minute. Erica Gardner brings up the fact that the lead prosecutor and his lead witness have been shacking up. She proposes that the child that said witness is carrying is not the result of the rape, but rather a torrid affair that could prove to be very embarrassing for both."

"That is _absurd_, Jack!" Mike nearly howled with indignation. "Do you have _any_ comprehension of the human gestational timeline?"

"We're talking about Erica Gardner."

"I can't believe you would even _suggest_ such flagrant…bullshit! Do you really believe that Connie would cry wolf and suborn perjury?"

"No," Jack responded placidly, only a slight crossness to his tone. "But a jury might. If even one person takes the bait, you've opened the door for a barrage of even more convoluted theories."

His face flush with anger and eyes glossed with outrage, Mike paced the room. "If Gardner pulls any stunts, anything at all, I'll motion for a mistrial."

"This won't go to trial," Jack ordered. "Offer Natalie Tremblay a deal."

Mike gaped in sheer horror and confusion. "Are…are we talking about the same case here? The one where Suzy Sunshine snapped and murdered her boyfriend in cold blood, because he botched up the plan to whack an ADA, killing a completely unrelated individual in the process? By my count, that's nearly 3 dead bodies on her conscience."

"The only thing you can prove is that she killed Greg Koehler, which conveniently falls into the category of Murder 2—unpremeditated. Everything else is theory, and I won't allow you to throw Connie under the bus to prove it."

"Jack-…!"

"8 and 1/3 to 25 years without parole. If you won't do it, I'll find someone who will."

"Are you threatening me?" Mike placed his hand over his chest for emphasis.

His eyes tapered with authority, Jack asserted, "I warned you that I couldn't help you if you chose this path."

"And who's going to help _you_, Jack? A woman declared war on this office, and you're just going to let her go? What kind of message does that send to the City? We're more concerned with damage control than locking up murderers?"

The two contenders glared at one another, waiting for someone to surrender. Jack finally spoke. "I want the papers signed and on my desk by tomorrow afternoon."

"Or what? You'll fire me?"

Giving no answer, Jack left Mike in the brume of uncertainty.

* * *

><p><em>Westcare Medical Group<em>

_327 Central Park West_

_Thursday, September 16_

The atmosphere of the examination room was as cold as the padded table on which Connie lay, draped in a crepe sheet. The sanitary paper rustled loudly with even the slightest movement. After an eternity of the grating tick of the clock and muffled ringing of a distant phone, Dr. Warren knocked and entered. "Hi, Connie, how are you feeling today?"

"I'm doing well, thanks."

"Good, good," she nodded politely, flipping through the chart. "Looks like your weight is up, blood pressure is normal, and… your CBC came back negative."

"That's so good to hear," Connie whispered, silently extending gratitude to any higher power that was listening. She had been given a prophylactic course of antiviral drugs right after the rape. Even still, each day she lived with the ominous prospect of a vile or incurable disease looming over her head.

"I'd still like to continue the biweekly testing, at least through your last trimester. Let's take a look at everything, shall we?" Dr. Warren palpated Connie's abdomen before rolling the sonogram equipment to the exam table. Bracing for shock of ice-cold goo, Connie was surprised to find that the jelly was warm. The ultrasound wand probed her stomach, revealing the image of a tiny form suspended in utero on the monitor. Dr. Warren occasionally tapped a command on the keyboard, noting dimensions of the spinal column, stomach, and brain cavity. "Well, everything looks to be normal. Measurements are just fine. You're a little over 9 weeks so…the fetus is about the size of a large grape. There's the heart—it's got all four chambers, now…. And that there is an arm…."

Connie felt the treacherous journey of a tear across the bridge of her nose and down her cheek, coming to an end in the folds of her ear. She heard her wavering voice escape from her lips. "I have to make a decision soon, don't I?"

Dr. Warren peered at her kindly from behind cat-eyed spectacles. "Well, Connie… You have passed the cutoff point for any pharmaceutical options for termination. However, you have until 12 weeks to choose to end the pregnancy through surgical methods. I can also direct you to someone who can give you information about adoption services. Remember, we're here to help you, okay?"

"Yeah…" she nodded, wiping the whisper of grief from her eyes. "Okay."

"Here's a tissue, so you can clean off your stomach." Dr. Warren peeled off her gloves with a snapping sound and returned the ultrasound cart to the corner of the room. "Okay, so I'd like to see you back in two weeks. You'll have the usual blood draw. And..." she paused, "think about what you want to do, and call me, okay? I want to make sure you have the available resources. Do you have any questions or concerns?"

"Any reason why it's called 'morning' sickness? I feel like it's 24/7…"

Dr. Warren smiled. "Old wives' tale. It's an inconvenience, but unless you're becoming dehydrated, I wouldn't worry too much. Just try to ease it with crackers or tea. I'll see you in two weeks."

Alone again in the sterile room, Connie redressed, a long evening of deliberation ahead of her.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Sorry this is another short chapter. The next one is going to be super long with a lot of information! I hope you guys can hang in there and follow along. I promise, it will all make sense! :) <strong>_


	10. God's Good Ocean Gone Wrong

_**AN: I hope you guys are keeping track of my crazy back and forth writing... This starts off with yet another flashback. **_

* * *

><p><em>Apartment of Elisa Orozco<em>

_565 West 169__th_

_Monday, August 2_

"_Ms. Orozco, do you recall the heated conversation you had with Ms. Rubirosa outside the courthouse last January?" Detective Bernard asked, his hands tucked into the pockets of his black trousers. _

"_I knew that would come back to bite me in the ass," Elisa declared, tossing clothes into a white plastic laundry basket. "Look, how was I supposed to react to a guilty verdict? Ethan got locked away, along with my child support payments, and I still somehow have to pay my bills. I'm a single parent, now, raising two kids. I make too much for any kind of government help, but I can hardly pay the rent. I was angry, but I'm not stupid—who would take care of my kids if I went to jail, too? Like I said, I didn't have anything to do with what happened to that lawyer."_

"_Do you know anyone named Daniel Orozco?" Detective Lupo steered the conversation away from her sob story. _

"_No," she shook her head with confusion. "Why?"_

"_We think he may have somehow been involved…"_

"_Oh, and you think I know him because we have the same last name?" Elisa scoffed. "There are over 3,000 Orozco's in New York State, Detective. Believe it or not, we're not all related."_

"_We mean no offense," Detective Bernard offered mitigation. "It's our job to follow every lead and coincidence, big or small." _

"_Well, let me make this coincidence bigger for you," she snapped. "Orozco is my married name. Excuse me if I didn't make things easier for you by going back to Martinez when my husband died on 9/11."_

_Bernard and Lupo exchanged rueful glances. _

_Elisa tugged open her apartment door. "Next time, do your homework before you come into my home, pointing fingers."_

_Trudging down the stairs, the Detectives discussed their next course of action. "So, Lupes, do you want to tell Cutter about what just went down, or should I?"_

_Lupo smirked. "Worst case scenario: he turns blue in the face, and we dig through some phone records and financials. You're not scared of a him, are you, B?"_

"_No way," Detective Bernard replied confidently. "He likes me better than you."_

"_Oh yeah? How do you figure?"_

"_I don't have a crush on his girlfriend." _

* * *

><p><em>Foley Square<em>

_Friday, September 17_

Engrossed in his thoughts on the slatted, wooden bench, Mike ignored the sounds of the city around him. The churning of his stomach was not hunger or sickness—it was the toll of a guilty conscience. He had made the deal, and sold his soul along with it.

"I have to say, with a cryptic text like 'Meet me in the park', I was sort of expecting flowers and a proposal," Connie approached from the courthouse. Her humor was lost on his gloomy temper. "Everything okay?"

He leaned forward, digging his hands into the pockets of his coat and impatiently tapping his foot. "Connie, Jack… Jack asked me to offer Natalie a deal. Actually, 'browbeat' would be the more accurate term."

Connie sat by his side, her nose slightly pink from the cool air. "Is that why you asked me to cover for you this afternoon?"

He nodded. "I was at Bayview."

"Oh," she adjusted her knit cap. "Did she take it?"

"Of course."

"That's good news. So, why do you look like they just outlawed baseball?"

Mike couldn't help but laugh. She shrugged with a hey-I'm-trying-here pout. "I… I just feel like I've let you down."

"Like I said before," Connie hooked her arm around his, reclining against him, "I just want all of this to be over."

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, hardly concerned with the consequences of such public affection. Mike dissolved the quietude. "I owe you an apology."

"What for?"

"Jack made me realize how…selfish it was for me to ask you to testify. He's the one looking out for your interests, protecting you. That should be me. I'm sorry."

Connie tilted her head upward, studying his profile. Deep, defined ridges of regret framed his eyes. "You didn't force me to do anything…"

"I emotionally blackmailed you. I told you that I…you know."

"Right," she recalled. She fought to conceal her characteristic smirk. "That may have been your most convincing argument to date."

He turned away to hide a clipped, sheepish smile. "The truth is easy to argue."

Feeling a wave of bittersweet uncertainty, she peeled herself away from him. "Mike, what are we doing?"

"Sitting on a bench…"

"No," she groaned at his irreverence. "Every part of me is telling me to run from this. It's complicated and messy, and it will only get worse."

"So, run. I'll just come after you. Connie, you're the only woman that's put up with me for this long. That has to mean something."

"I'm paid to put up with you," she quipped. Her eyes darkened when she realized that if he was going to be a permanent fixture, she had to let him in completely. "Mike…"

"Hmm?"

"Since we're being so candid, I think you should know that... I've decided that not having this baby…would go against everything I believe in. I don't know if I'm strong enough to handle this, but not toughing it out to find out? That would be worse. I'm scared that I'd be forfeiting my only chance, and frankly, I don't know if I could ever forgive myself for that. I _have _to believe that there's a reason I'm here, now, on this path."

Knowing that he did not have the palliative and reassuring words to erase her doubts and fears, Mike simply wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple.

* * *

><p><em>Manhattan Supreme Court Building<em>

_60 Centre Street_

_Monday, September 21_

Emerging from the North façade of the courthouse, Mike and Connie chatted about the mishap that had been Aimee Harris' testimony. He woefully overreacted, earning a pep talk from her. It was comforting and _normal_, as if the past two months had never happened. At the base of the front steps, Lupo and Bernard stood with grim expressions. Surprised by the visit, Mike greeted them warily. "Good afternoon, Detectives. How can we help you?"

"I'm sorry, Connie," Lupo squirmed anxiously.

"What's…going…on?" she frowned.

Detective Bernard gently seized her arm and stammered through his lines. "Ms. Rubirosa, you are under arrest for the murder of Natalie Tremblay…"

"What!" The blood drained from her face. His head stooped in shame, Lupo took her briefcase and handed it to a dumbfounded Mike.

"…You have the right to remain silent; any-…anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney…"

"What the hell is going?" Mike exploded, trailing the Detectives to their patrol car.

"Relax, Counselor," Lupo pleaded, placing a hand on Mike's shoulder.

Reflexively, Mike shoved him away, instantly realizing that he could be the next one facing a Miranda recital.

Lupo chose to ignore the outburst, intending to be as discreet as possible. "Just come down to the precinct, and we'll fill you in there. Please, don't make this any more difficult than it has to be."

Mike watched, helplessly, as Connie disappeared from view.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Sorry, I can't resist a cliffhanger! <em>**


	11. The Battery's Run Dry

_**AN: This took forever to complete because I was in a Turkey coma for a couple days, plus I had a 10-page research paper due. Yay for school. (BTW: can you tell what my major is from this chapter? lol) Anyway, this isn't my best work, but again, I wanted to get the story moving along. Hope you enjoy! Also, in case anyone needs a little refresher: Bart Rainey is Woll's hitman from "For the Defense"  
><strong>_

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><p><em>27<em>_th__ Precinct_

_Uptown Manhattan_

_Tuesday, September 22_

The interrogation room was stark and outdated, painted an odd shade of mint green. It smelled slightly musty, and there was visible dust coating the chain-linked windowsill. Connie slumped in her chair, mindlessly wringing her hands, trying to erase the ink residue that stained her fingers. Her neck and shoulder ached from spending the night on the worn bed in the holding cell. She had hardly slept, the humiliation of being subjected to fingerprinting and unflattering photography replaying continuously in her head. Mike had made a few appearances in her thoughts as well. He had never shown up at the precinct, and she couldn't help but be disappointed. She had been reluctant to admit it, but she needed him, now more than ever. Where was he? Detective Lupo entered, wielding two cups of coffee with a folder tucked under his arm.

"Decaf," he announced, setting one of the cups in front of her. "I brewed it…just for you."

"Thanks," she replied almost inaudibly. "What time is it?"

"Almost 7:30." He sat down in the chair across the table and sighed heavily. Studying her for a moment, he finally spoke. "Connie, I'm not going to pretend that this is easy for me."

"That makes two of us," she replied wryly.

Opening the file in front of him, he cleared his throat, exhibiting an obvious apprehension. He retrieved a photocopied paper and slid it toward her. "The visitor's log from Bayview from this past Saturday... Do you wanna tell me why you were there?"

Finding the strength to maintain composure, Connie responded evenly to the allegations. She knew that becoming upset would have no positive outcome. "I went to see Natalie… I wanted answers. I needed to understand why she did what she did."

"And what happened?"

"What do you mean?" Connie massaged her neck, puzzlement and disinterest marking her weary face. "We talked..."

"The CO on duty gave a statement saying that within 30 minutes of your departure, Natalie was complaining of headache and shortness of breath. 15 minutes later, she was dead."

"I had nothing to do with that." Her voice wavered slightly with exasperation. One friend had tried to kill her—no, destroy her—and, now, another was accusing her of murder? "Maybe the guilt finally got to her."

Lupo slid a second paper toward her—a copy of a toxicology report—this time, more brusquely. He wanted to help her, but she wasn't cooperating. "Then tell me how a fatal amount of secobarbital ended up in her system, the same secobarbital that you were given a prescription for when you were released from the hospital in July."

"Those pills were to help me sleep. As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I tossed them in the trash. Anyone could have found them in the dumpster behind my apartment."

"True, but _you _were her roommate; _you _shared a medicine cabinet with her. _You_ knew that Natalie was taking phenelzine for anxiety and panic attacks. Mix that with a deadly dose of Seconal, and she didn't stand a chance."

Connie was tired and irritable, and the Detective's accusatory tone pushed her over the edge. "I didn't even know her boyfriend's name! You think I knew that she was taking anti-anxiety pills? I mean, even if I _had _wanted her dead, I wouldn't have done it by waltzing into a secured facility and asking her to swallow a bottle of downers! Have you even _considered_ that? Do-…do you think I pinned her down and shoved the pills down her throat one by one? And was that before or after I took a trip to the landfill, spent hours of my _abundant_ free time digging through the piles of waste to find the pills, and then sneaking them into Bayview in my purse? This is absurd. I shouldn't be here, and neither should you! You should be out searching for the son of a bitch who's setting me up!"

His expression toeing the line between frustration and compassion, Lupo placed his hand on her frail wrist. "Look, I understand that you've been through something… _unimaginable_. Everyone has a breaking point; but, I can't help you if you don't talk to me. Talk to me, Connie."

She recoiled, her eyes dark and distrustful. "If you want to help me, get me my lawyer."

Like a scene out of a murder mystery movie, Jack McCoy burst into the room, tailed by the Lieutenant. "This interview is over."

Looking to his superior for guidance, Lupo challenged Jack's abrupt intrusion. "The DA has time to personally handle cases, now?"

"I make time when one of my own is hoisted up on the stake as the sacrificial lamb. These charges are outrageous."

"As much as I don't want to believe it, the evidence says otherwise."

Jack extracted a folded paper from the inside pocket of his coat. "The evidence is hardly prejudicial enough to warrant an indictment from my office. The People have no interest in pursuing a case against Ms. Rubirosa. In my hand, I have an order, signed by Judge Braden, releasing her to my custody on her own recognizance."

Van Buren held the door open and shot Lupo a don't-you-dare-open-your-mouth glare. "Ms. Rubirosa, you're free to go."

Outside the building, Connie winced at the harsh brightness of the sunlight. She hugged her jacket tightly around her waist, feeling a wave of nausea. Out of sheer contrariness, she had refused to eat, resulting in a debilitating hunger and weakness. She sunk into the soft black leather seats of the Town Car that was double parked next to a police cruiser. Jack instructed the driver to take her home and took a separate car back to the office. Once on Broadway, Connie redirected her driver to Mike's address. She needed to see him.

The apartment was dark and chilled, an indication that it had been empty the night before. Connie's briefcase was lying on the counter, her Blackberry beside it. Quickly, she dialed Mike's office—no answer. She tried his cell phone, only to hear an automated voice. _You have reached 646-481-6-…_ A thousand thoughts of panic began to race through her mind. Had he disappeared—or worse, had he been killed, an abhorrent finale to the tragedy her life had become? Refusing Refusing to succumb to hysteria, Connie shook the terrible possibilities out of her head. Jack hadn't mentioned anything to her. Mike was probably on his way to work or already in court. However, this small comfort couldn't explain why the bed was still neatly made up, just as she had left it Monday morning. She crawled onto the mattress and collapsed. She contemplated a much-needed nap, but decided she would not be able to rest until she had poured her heart and soul out to the person who knew her best. She pressed a single number on her speed dial, lighting up the shadowy bedroom with the bright screen of her phone. The line rang several times before a familiar voice answered. "Hello?"

"Apá?"

"Consuela! Mija! Cómo estás?" Her father was elated to hear from her; she hadn't called in several weeks.

She hated to truncate his joy, but she could not disguise the sadness and distress in her tone. "Dad... I'm so sorry. I've been so distant lately."

"Well, you're very busy. I understand... But, are you okay? Mija, pasa algo?"

Connie held her breath, valiantly trying to stifle the fiery ball of anguish that threatened to overcome her. The resistance was futile, and she found herself retching through her words. "Apá, me...siento...avergonzada."

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><p><em>Attica Correctional Facility<em>

_639 Exchange Street Road_

_Tuesday, September 22_

Sitting in the driver's seat of a nondescript rental car, Mike drank the bitter last sip of his gas station coffee. He tossed the cup into the back seat and heaved open the car door. His grip on his briefcase was slippery with sweat. He paused in the shadow of the ominous stone turret that marked the front gate, silently praying that he was not wasting his time. In the reception building, he breezed through the motions of showing credentials, being frisked for weapons and contraband, and turning his belongs into the visitor's station. The desk attendant handed him a badge with a number and directed him to a line of anxious and emotional fathers, wives, husbands, uncles, brothers, nieces, nephews, grandparents, and friends. He was wrangled into the visiting room with everyone else, a bright and cheery space that seemed more like a middle-school cafeteria than a maximum-security conference room. He waited for the okay from the guard and took a seat across the table from a small man with a receding hairline, who seemed more than surprised to have a visitor from the Manhattan D.A.

"Well, if it isn't my old buddy, Mike Cutter. Are you here to sweeten the deal?"

"Actually, Mr. Rainey, this visit is unofficial and completely off-the-record. I can't believe I'm saying this, but," Mike cringed at the folly of the situation, "I'm asking you for a favor…in good faith."

"What's in it for me?" Bart leaned back, resting his arm on the table.

"The satisfaction of doing the right thing for once," Mike snapped. "Look, my colleague is in trouble. I haven't slept for over 24 hours because I've been digging, finding everything I can to help her… and I think I might have something. I drove up here on adrenaline and not nearly enough caffeine because I need you to help me put the pieces together."

Bart surveyed the room, weighing his options. He could tell this Cutter guy to piss off—he didn't owe him anything. On the other hand, he could throw Karma a bone and hope that he'd be compensated, somehow, for his assistance. "Alright, I'm listening."

"I need you to get me some information...from Marcus Woll."


	12. Crawling

_**AN: This one is really short... Sorry. It will probably be my last update for a little while. I have some finals coming up. Boooooo. **_

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><p><em>Manhattan Supreme Court<em>

_60 Centre Street_

_Wednesday, September 23_

Henry Friedman sat tensely awaiting his fate. Across the well, Connie anxiously eyed her cell phone. The judge would arrive any moment, and Mike was still MIA. He hadn't returned home the night before, nor had he called or given any indication that he was alive. It had been a rough morning, to put it lightly. Connie had never been more grateful for concealer. She'd spent the night tossing and turning, afraid that if she closed her eyes and surrendered to sleep, she would miss Mike's call or text. She'd mustered the strength to get out of bed and face the day, but the whispers that followed her throughout the office and courthouse corridors were enfeebling. Judge Barclay appeared through the side doors and took a seat at the bench. He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and ordered the sentencing hearing to convene.

...

Connie was back at Hogan Place within 30 minutes. Henry Friedman had received three consecutive life sentences. It was a sweeping victory, but she hardly felt like celebrating. She set her briefcase at her workstation and surreptitiously strolled into Mike's empty office. His desk was a disaster zone. His blue-and-white-specked mug sat precariously atop a stack of reference books, fermenting coffee still inside. She shuffled through the papers and notepads, searching for any sign of where he might be. Suddenly realizing that she was looking in the wrong place, she turned her attention toward his white board. It took great skill to decipher Mike Cutter's handwriting, but she extracted a few significant phrases. _Tremblay/Woll affair? Rainey Informant _

Feeling overcome by a wave of disgust, Connie crossed the hallway to Jack's office. He was quietly reading a case brief. "Where's Mike? I know that you know."

"I have a feeling that you already know, so why are you asking me?" Jack peeled off his spectacles and peered at her quizzically.

"Please tell me you didn't sanction his absence. Tell me that you didn't allow him to drive 6 hours upstate by himself with no backup."

"I couldn't stop him."

"You're the boss, Jack! Since _when_ do you indulge reckless and completely irresponsible behavior?"

Jack rose from his chair and moved toward her, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders. "He went to Attica, Connie, not a gunfight at the OK Corral. You're overreacting."

"If he wanted answers, he could have used the phone…like a normal person! I can't believe you let him go!" Connie paused, hearing a door slam in the distance. She raced back across the hall to find Mike barely standing in the middle of his office. His eyes were bloodshot, his chin was covered in stubble, and his suit was wrinkled. "Mike…"

Scratching his head in a daze, he asked, "What was the verdict?"

"Three life sentences…" Connie uttered with disbelief. He was completely ignoring the elephant in the room. "Do you want to tell me what the hell were you thinking? I've been worried sick, Mike."

"Can we have this argument later?" he groaned, sinking into his desk chair.

"No, we can't! Did you even _think_ to call me? Do you have _any_ idea what I've been through?"

"What you've been through?" he echoed bitterly. "I've spent the last 36 hours trying to figure out this whole fiasco. I'm exhausted. Jesus, Connie, if you'd stop making everything about you for just one goddamn minute, maybe you'd be a little more sensitive to the fact that I don't feel up to shouldering the third degree right now."

He immediately regretted the unkind and deleterious words. He closed his eyes and braced for the wrath of a woman scorned, but instead he heard her retreat from his office. He turned to see Jack standing in the side doorway. "Don't... Don't even say it."

Jack offered a noncommittal shrug. "So, did you find what you were looking for?"

Mike nodded hesitantly. "Yeah, but it's so convoluted that I can't keep track. I did some digging through Natalie's cell phone records, four years worth of records to be exact. I found a few phone calls to the DA's office; at first, I thought she was calling Connie. But, it didn't add up—some of the calls were 45 minutes long. They were roommates; why would they spend 45 minutes on the phone at work? So, I had the numbers cross-referenced with the departments, and these calls took place when Connie was already working for you, on a different floor. Bart Rainey confirmed my suspicions. According to Rainey, Natalie started seeing Woll a few years back...presumably after Connie dumped him. Woll gets locked up, he wants payback, so he asks Natalie for a favor…et cetera, et cetera."

"I don't understand. Why would Greg Koehler knowingly help his girlfriend murder someone for an ex-boyfriend?"

"I'm thinking that he didn't know. I'm also thinking that there's nothing 'ex' about Woll." Mike tugged open his top drawer and rummaged for food. He found a granola bar and unenthusiastically unwrapped it.

"So, what was the motive, then? Do we have any evidence of bribery or coercion? Or was this guy really as clueless as we're being led to believe?"

"I haven't gotten that far, yet. I've got Rainey playing detective, though. For now, all I can do is wait."

"Don't get too comfortable," Jack warned, turning to leave. "The case docket is full, and no offense, but you and Connie are much better as a whole than the sum of your parts. Put your tail between your legs and start begging for forgiveness."

Mike relished his momentary solitude and slightly stale breakfast, having no exigent intention of reconciling with Connie. He knew that a few hours of separation would heal any wounds. They were both professionals; more than once they had been able to set aside their disagreements for the greater good. This time would be no different... he hoped.


	13. Think of Me

_**AN: I needed a break from research and projects, so I decided to put up a chapter. The next one won't come until the end of next week, probably. Sorry, especially since this one is, well...you'll see :) **_

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><p><em>Later that day…<em>

The routine morning bustle had dwindled to the dull afternoon, and Mike hoped that Connie's fury had done the same. He paused in his office doorway, mentally writing a script for an unavoidably awkward conversation. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he approached her desk. She appeared to be on her way out.

"Going somewhere?"

"Yeah, to the 2-7," she replied curtly. Mike made an exaggerated gesture, indicating that he was waiting for her to elaborate. "They think they have the Staten Island Killer."

Mike shifted with disbelief. "_The_ Staten Island Killer? The one who's been butchering high-end escorts right and left, yet evading authorities for six months?"

"Yep. And, the kicker is that he was brought in for siphoning gasoline, of all things."

"Stealing gas and murdering prostitutes are two very different things," Mike observed skeptically.

"An initial search of his car yielded an acrylic nail tip and a charm off of a bracelet that matches the description of one that the most recent victim was wearing when she disappeared. It's our dumb luck that this guy got careless."

"Or tired… I'll go with you. I have to drop off the rental car anyway. Let me get my jacket." Mike vanished into his office and reappeared a few moments later, hardly able to contain his anticipation.

Connie, however, grew rigid with discomfort, dreading being confined to a compact vehicle with him. She was unprecedentedly outraged by his callous behavior, feeling hurt, embarrassed, frightened, and alone. Despite the inner turmoil, she forced herself to remember that if the suspect in custody panned out to be the savage animal the police had been industriously searching for, it would be Mike's case, too. They were colleagues first and foremost, and he deserved to be privy to the same information as her.

In the car, Connie purposely focused her attention on the passing buildings and pedestrians. She could feel Mike periodically scoping her out between expletives about the heavy traffic. After twenty-odd blocks, he cleared his throat and attempted to mend fences. "I stopped at home this morning before I went into the office. It seemed…tidier than usual."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't sleep last night."

"So, you went on a cleaning binge. Interesting. Are you…" he paused, aware that his next words could be easily misconstrued. "Are you going to stay over again tonight?"

Connie laughed bitterly. Mike squeezed his temples, frustrated and drained. A reconciliation was not on the horizon. "Connie, we're adults here."

"Thank you for clarifying that."

"Why is it that any time someone—no, scratch that—any time _I_ question your actions, you make a run for it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The Whitman case? You didn't talk to me for three days. And, do you remember the Grogan case? You asked for a transfer to another bureau! What's it going to be this time? Are you going to break up with me? Stop taking my calls? Move to another country?"

His condescension was maddening, and her voice became shrill with anger. "There is a difference between criticism and you being an inconsiderate asshole!"

"Inconsiderate? Connie I'd barely walked through the door, and you were on my case! God forbid I don't give you a play-by-play of what I'm doing for one fucking second."

She subconsciously turned in her seat, delving into the heat of the confrontation. "You're such a hypocrite! _You're_ the one who has made everything about me! _You're_ the one who decided to become a vigilante. I didn't _force_ you to go anywhere or do _any_thing. Stop punishing me for having a legitimate reaction… for being worried about you… for being _human_!"

"Okay, alright, fine. I'm sorry. Next time, I'll remember not to be honest with you, because apparently it pisses you off."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Connie snapped definitively.

"Fine." Mike's grip on the steering wheel tightened. He heard her mutter an aside about how she felt like an idiot and that she knew _this_ would happen. "Oh, so we _are_ having this conversation?"

"Stop…talking…" she hissed. The remainder of the commute was marred by palpable tension. When they finally reached the 2-7, Connie didn't bother to wait for him. She practically jumped out of the car, welcoming the temporary concealment that the precinct offered.

The squad room was crowded and noisy; the activity in the adjacent interrogation room had become a spectacle. Officers of every rank were huddled around the observation window. Connie squeezed through the mob, greeting Lieutenant Van Buren with a pared smile. "Hey. So, what have we got?"

Anita unfolded her arms from her chest and handed Connie a green file. "Ezra Mercher, 43: he's a delivery driver for a florist. He lives with his mother in Staten Island—the guy is a _real _piece of work. My boys like him for this, but I'm not ready to issue a press statement just yet."

Mike surfaced behind Connie, composed and alert. "Looks like this show sold out. Where's the popcorn?"

"There's a vending machine down the hall," Anita quipped dryly.

…

After an unnerving interrogation, Mercher finally invoked counsel. Mike left for the rental place, and Connie stayed behind to talk to the Detectives about building a case. She sat at the desk with them, poring over what little information they had. Knowing he was in for a long night, Bernard went to make coffee, leaving Connie and Lupo in uncomfortable solitude.

"Connie… I hope there's no hard feelings about… you know. I mean, putting you in a holding cell was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, and that's saying a lot. I worked Intel in Iraq."

"It's fine," she responded in a rather banal manner, not bothering to take her eyes off of the file she was reading. "You were just doing your job, and well, I might add. By the time I left, _I _thought I was crazy."

Lupo lowered the folder from her line of vision with his pen. His unreadable gaze pervaded her in the dim light. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for things to go down like that. I have a lot of respect for you, Connie. I admire your integrity. I don't believe that you would hurt anyone."

"Thank you…" Connie felt herself shiver slightly, and from where it came, she had no idea.

"If you ever need someone… _objective _to talk to, I'm here."

Cyrus' intentions were both ambiguous and alluring, but Connie did not have time to dwell on the matter. Detective Bernard returned with his mug of coffee and gloated, "Alright, let's nail this son of a bitch."

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><p><em>Apartment of Michael Cutter<em>

_71 Broadway_

_Wednesday, September 23_

It was only 9:30, but Mike had already surrendered himself to his mattress and pillow. A light autumn rain struck his window with a calming rhythm, and its shadow danced across his bedroom wall. His body was aching for sleep, but he was aching for Connie—his sheets still held her irresistible scent. The grating sound of his buzzer assaulted his ears. He reluctantly padded to his front door, the dark wood floor like ice under his feet. He unlatched the deadbolt to find Connie standing in the hallway. She wordlessly brushed past him, through the entryway and into the bedroom.

Her presence was unexpected, but absolute exhaustion impeded any discussion of the situation. He locked the door and poured himself a glass of water before joining her in the room. She'd removed her damp black coat, and he noted that she was still wearing her blouse and skirt from earlier. They honored the silence, understanding one another implicitly. Mike grabbed her an old shirt from his closet and climbed back into the bed, treasuring the curves of her body as she undressed. She crawled across the mattress to meet him, the thin fabric of her shirt obliging him to wrap his arm around her. He kissed her neck, and she entwined his fingers with her own. He drew her closer, as if that night were the last they would ever have together. Neither suspected that it was.


	14. False Alarm

_**AN: I'm posting TWO chapters in celebration of finishing two projects! Enjoy, and hang onto your seats!**_

_**Disclaimer: Again, I don't own any of these characters!  
><strong>_

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><p>The next few days flew by at lightening speed. The capture of the elusive Staten Island Killer sent the DA's office into a maelstrom. Staten Island wanted jurisdiction, but since Ezra Mercher had been arrested in Manhattan, Jack was fighting for his team to handle the case. It was a war of hubris, a battle for bonus checks. Finally, Governor Matheby put his foot down. Manhattan had the arrest, a car abounding with evidence, and frankly, the better conviction record. A carefully worded conversation (and a few promises) got Jack the case on a daunting contingency: the two offices were expected to work together amenably. Mike and Connie were caught in the resulting crossfire, juggling a burgeoning caseload; answering to Jack's every beck and call; being hassled by reporters; and wrestling evidence from reluctant forensic teams across the Bay.<p>

Connie's father decided to pay her an unexpected visit to boot. He showed up at Hogan Place on that Thursday afternoon, a rather inopportune time. In stark contrast to Connie's elation, Mike was disappointed. He had hoped the weekend would offer a respite from the impending chaos. He was admittedly still impaired by the night before, unable to keep from relishing the sway of Connie's figure with every move and the reality that he had staked claim on every part. However, he was willing to concede that she needed to be with her family; she needed the kind of support and understanding that he could not offer. So, for that fleeting instant, everything took to the back burner—love, lust, and the conundrum of Marcus Woll.

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><p><em>27<em>_th__ Precinct_

_Uptown Manhattan_

_Wednesday, September 29_

Mike did not enjoy early morning visits to the 2-7, especially when they meant watching mundane surveillance videos. He sipped his latte sluggishly, chatting idly with the detectives as they sifted through footage of Ezra Mercher stalking his last victim. If anyone thought putting a serial killer away for life was easy, they were dead wrong. Mike could only link Mercher to one victim, Stacy Davis, and that was _only_ if they could find out where her body was. He was ready to call it a day and head into the office, when one of the TARU technicians called Detective Lupo to her workstation. Mike and Detective Bernard followed.

The slight, young woman turned her computer monitor to face them. "I cleaned up what I could of the video you asked for, and then I ran the facial recognition software."

"What is it?" Mike asked curiously, unable to discern anything from the gray, pixelated image.

"I asked Mae to go through the security tapes from Bayview from the day Natalie Tremblay was murdered," Lupo ceded, girding himself for Mike's reproach.

"You mean you didn't check them _before_ you arrested Connie?"

"We did," Bernard quashed the budding altercation, "but nothing seemed out of place. Lupes asked Mae to go through them _again_, in case we were missing something."

The technician tapped a few commands on the keyboard, and the screen zoomed in on a figure. A small box appeared, scanning through thousands of photos until it settled on one. Mike's blood froze. It wasn't possible…

"Tell me that ain't who I think it is," Bernard leaned in closer to the monitor. "Maximum security, my ass."

"So, if a perp grows a beard and puts on a pair of glasses, they slip right under your radar?" Mike clamored in ire and disbelief. His remark was directed solely at Cyrus. "I didn't realize we were playing comic book detectives."

"While you're busy pointing the finger, I'm going to be productive," Lupo booked it to his desk, yanking his jacket off of his chair. Mike was in hot pursuit, tailed by Bernard. "We have to find Connie."

He was right. Her safety trumped their petty clash of egos.

"Her doctor's office is on… 93rd and Central Park West, I think," Mike proffered, employing every ounce of strength not to panic. A murderous sociopath was wandering the streets; a killer with a nasty habit of offing anyone who got in his way; a killer whose primary target was Connie. Mike had no doubt that this time, Marcus Woll wouldn't mind doing the job himself.

"I've got a friend at the 2-4. That's a few blocks from there… I'll see if I can get a tail on her. You worry about getting a trace on Woll." Detective Bernard picked up the phone at his desk and swiftly dialed the precinct.

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><p><em>Westcare Medical Group<em>

_327 Central Park West_

_Wednesday, September 29_

Connie coddled her sore, bandaged arm as she settled her affairs at the reception desk. She'd been poked and prodded four times before another phlebotomist had stepped in to help. Connie hated being stuck like a pig, even if she had adopted the appetite of one. Fortunately, Dr. Warren decided that monthly visits would be just as good as biweekly. Shoving her prescription for prenatal vitamins into her jacket pocket, she stepped into the elevator and made her way down to the street. She rounded the corner and walked up to 96th, where she jogged down the stairs into the Subway station.

Once she was seated on the train, Connie retrieved her phone from her bag. She groaned when she saw that the battery was dying. She turned it off and flipped through an old copy of _Fashionelle_ she found in her briefcase, oblivious to the man who watched her intently from a few feet away.

He followed her as she transferred to another train, taking no precaution to remain undetected. As she waited on the platform, Connie began to feel uneasy. Noting the hooded man, she decided to skip public transportation and resurfaced on Bleecker. She quickened her pace and shoved her hand into her purse, blindly searching for her phone. Her heart pounded, her throat tightened, and her fingers trembled. Her mind reeled with fractured memories of the night she had been attacked. The fight or flight response kicked in fully when she discovered that her cell phone battery was completely dead. She moved faster, her legs feeling heavy and useless. He moved faster, too.

He grabbed her arm and she cried out, writhing out of his grip. She only managed to gain a few feet before he had her again. "Ms. Rubirosa—please! I'm not going to hurt you!"

She forced herself to open her eyes, her terror subsiding when she recognized the police badge being waved in her face. She felt a surge of anger. "Who _are_ you? Why are you following me?"

"I'm Detective Adrian Lucero. I'm from the 2-4. I'm a friend of Kevin's… I need you to come with me."

"I… I don't understand," Connie adjusted her knit cap and brushed her hair out of her face, slightly embarrassed by her disheveled appearance. After all, she _had_ just attempted to run for her life. "What's going on?"

"I'm sorry if I scared you, but Detective Bernard told me that you're in danger. He asked me to escort you back to your office. I'll get him on the phone right now if you don't believe me."

Connie carefully inspected the detective, searching her intuition for an answer. Her gut was telling her to trust him, but she couldn't take any chances. He interpreted her silence as skepticism, so he held up his cell phone and showed her the call log. The 27th precinct was the last entry. She nodded in approval, and they made their way back to Hogan Place.


	15. Fallen

_**AN: I apologize if anyone got multiple alerts about this story... I was having issues with the chapters, and I had to re-do them. Sorry!**_

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><p><em>The Office of the Manhattan District Attorney<em>

_One Hogan Place_

_Wednesday, September 29_

"I don't understand. How do you just walk out of Attica?" Connie slumped against the arm of the sofa in Jack's office.

"Rainey indicated that Woll had access to a cell phone. The guy obviously has resources and a litany of accomplices. Who's to say he didn't buy a way out?" Mike sat at her side, tossing his baseball back and forth between his hands.

"He's more dangerous than we thought. Who knows how many people he's paid off. We don't know how far or how deep this goes. Until we do, Connie, you'll be subjected to all necessary safety measures." Jack glanced expectantly at Lieutenant Van Buren, who nodded affirmatively. "Same goes for you, Mike."

"Why me?" Mike's head snapped up, eyes wide.

"Connie isn't the only one who humiliated him on the stand. You're fair game, and frankly, the more satisfying target." Jack's subtle dig secured a small smile from Connie. "In any event, we need to track down that phone."

"Can we call Wyoming County and get a search warrant for Woll's cell?" Mike suggested. "We won't find the phone, but maybe it will point us in the right direction."

Jack shrugged. "It's worth a shot."

Anita turned to Lupo and Bernard. "I want you two to go up to Bayview and talk to the CO. See what you can find out about Woll's visit."

Bernard moved for the door, but Lupo hesitated, briefly looking at Connie with concern. "What about the security detail?"

His insubordinate questioning stupefied the Lieutenant. "_I'll_ handle that. It's my job. I suggest you drop the knight-in-shining-armor act, and do yours."

Lupo sheepishly exited, ignoring the what-the-hell-were-you-thinking glare from his partner. Anita excused herself as well, adding that she would be in touch.

"So, now what?" Mike stood and began pacing the room.

"You get back to work on the Mercher case," Jack answered simply. "Oh, and one more thing. I suggest that you two reevaluate your sleeping arrangement."

…

"Jack's right, you know," Connie confessed later that afternoon. She glanced away from the document on her computer screen and met Mike's gaze. He was slouched in the chair that flanked her desk, toying with the metal tab on his soda can.

"How do you figure?"

"We'd be giving Marcus an unfair advantage, to say the least," she reasoned. "We'd be sitting ducks."

Mike didn't see her logic. "It's been nearly two weeks since Natalie was murdered. The guy has had plenty of opportunities to strike. If we were truly in danger, I think he'd have made a move by now."

"Yeah, well, it takes arrogance to know arrogance. He's probably been waiting for you to say that… Waiting for you to be lulled into a delusional and slightly sanctimonious sense of security." Connie's tone was scornful, but well meaning. "The bottom line is: the less time we're together, the better."

"That shouldn't be difficult. We haven't been alone since last week," Mike uttered quietly.

"We're alone right now," she replied flippantly, casing their surroundings. Jack was down the hall, his secretary was at her desk, and a few junior ADAs were making copies in the reference room. Mike's expression was not one of amusement, and Connie reigned in her sarcasm. "Look, this is only going to be temporary."

"I'm sure Detective Lupo will thoroughly enjoy having me out of the picture," Mike scoffed.

"Mike… Don't start." Connie returned to typing the subpoena in front of her. "I told you months ago that there's nothing between me and Cyrus."

"I don't think he can say the same."

"No, I don't think he can, but does it matter?" she rolled her eyes, massaging the base of her neck. "You heard Anita: he's not on bodyguard duty."

"_Officially_, no…he's not."

"Besides… You have nothing to be worried about. I've clearly made my choice." Mike smirked coyly at her confession. "So, now that I've made your head even bigger, can we please get back to work?"

"Right…" Mike announced with a slightly mischievous smile, as if he had just remembered that he had a job to do. "I'll leave you to your drafting."

He retreated to his office, and a few moments later Connie's phone vibrated against her desk. She only briefly glanced at the screen before doing a double take:

**09/29/10 3:17 PM**

**From: Michael Cutter**

**+16464816397**

**I love you**

* * *

><p><em>Apartment of Michael Cutter<em>

_71 Broadway_

_Friday, October 1_

Mike awoke with a start. The bright letters on his digital clock read 4:02 AM. Someone was frantically banging on his front door. Before he even reached the bedroom hallway, the door flew open with a loud crack and two officers appeared wielding their firearms. He was ordered to grab only the essentials, and then forcibly whisked into their custody. He was still half asleep, and the commotion jumbled his thoughts even further. He struggled to keep up with the detectives as they nearly dragged him down the stairs and into a patrol car on the street, where they finally acknowledged his protests.

"Relax, Mr. Cutter. We're taking you to One P.P…. You'll be safe there."

"Safe from what? What the hell is going on?"

"There's been an incident."

* * *

><p><em>Manhattan Supreme Court<em>

_60 Centre Street_

_Friday, October 1_

Jack McCoy slowly approached the podium on the palatial steps. A frigid breeze whipped his graying hair that was rendered a brilliant shade of silver under the overcast sky. Cameras flashed and boom microphones hung ominously over his head. The murmur of the crowd died down and he struggled to find his words.

"I have called this audience under the gravest of circumstances. Early this morning, one of Manhattan's finest citizens had her life taken from her in a brutal and abhorrent manner. I cannot convey the sadness that fills my heart. Assistant District Attorney Consuela Rubirosa dedicated her life to the pursuit of righteousness. She was compassionate, selfless, and loyal. Connie… was like my own blood." His voice faltered, but he fought for composure. "We… We, as District Attorneys, are tasked with protecting the innocent. If this is how we are to be repaid, then I have failed as an administrator of justice. I want this City to know that I have made it my personal priority to hunt down the monster responsible for Ms. Rubirosa's death. I have witnessed inconceivable savagery and suffering during my tenure, and there were times that I could not speak out, because I was bound by the Law. _This_ is where I draw the line. I will not tolerate such arrant and vile desecration of integrity and decency. My office is offering full cooperation with the NYPD, and I ask that all of you do the same. Thank you."


	16. Ghosts of the Past

_**AN: Sorry my update has taken so long. This chapter is my favorite, and the more I edited it, the more I changed completely! It takes place over a rather long period of time- I hope it's not too confusing, and I really hope you enjoy it as much as I do :) **_

* * *

><p><em>Office of the Chief <em>

_Medical Examiner_

_Monday, October 4_

The hallways of 520 1st street were well lit, yet stark and unfeeling. Detective Bernard nervously eyed his partner as they navigated their way to Examination Room C. It had been a rough few days for everyone. Most grieved quietly for their fallen colleagues, but Lupo had gone to the extreme. He was irritable, withdrawn, and disinterested. He was plagued by the guilt that he had not been there to save Connie. Even with a three patrolmen guarding her apartment building, Woll, or someone working for him, had successfully executed his plan. After the initial blame game, name-calling, and flying fists, the police department and the DA's office realized that the rational thing to do was figure out what had happened, how, and why.

Dr. Rodgers stood over an autopsy table, scribbling her initials onto the contents of the file she held. She glanced up at the Detectives who had just come through the double doors. She retracted her pen with a click and shoved it into her lab coat.

"Is it her?" Lupo asked abruptly, earning critical glares from both Bernard and Dr. Rodgers.

"Good afternoon to you, too," she replied wryly. "I'm surprised to see you here, Detectives. My official report won't be ready until tomorrow."

"We're not trying to light a fire under your ass," Bernard attempted to palliate the tension. "We're here on a more…personal level."

Dr. Rodgers considered them for a moment. Detective Lupo resembled death warmed over, markedly distraught over the events from the Friday before. A substantial purple and yellow contusion surrounded his left eye, a memento from the physical altercation with EADA Mike Cutter. Tragedy had brought their budding antagonism to a head. Bernard had been the mediator that night, eventually wrenching them apart and tossing them into separate holding cells. It was apparent to Elizabeth that his role for the time being was to keep his partner from going over the edge. Deciding to practice charity, she crossed her arms over her chest and pressed her tongue against her cheek. "Unofficially… The victim is a female; I'm guessing early to mid 30s. The turgor of the skin and swollen abdomen indicated pregnancy. The measurement of the fetus was roughly that of around 11 weeks. Cause of death is cranial hemorrhage due to the proximity of the gunshot to the head. The face was unrecognizable, so I ran a DNA comparison to Ms. Rubirosa, and… it was a 13 point match."

Lupo exhaled with bittersweet relief. "That's… that's not 100%."

"The odds of two people having a 13-loci match are less than one in a billion." Elizabeth exchanged a poignant look with Detective Bernard. I'm sorry…but for all intents and purposes, it's a positive ID."

* * *

><p><em>Residence of D.A. Jack McCoy<em>

_Upper West Side, Manhattan_

_Thursday, October 7_

Jack slowly descended his staircase, taking a seat next to the dejected figure at the foot. The two men seemed like models of one another at different points in time. On the left: a middle-aged man, shirtsleeves rolled up untidily, entrenched in agony. On the right: a much older man, tie slack from the late hour, overcome with sagacious compassion. An old warhorse and his protégé. They persisted in silence, listening to the tick of a grandfather clock in the next room and the occasional set of tires thwacking against the rain steeped street outside.

Earlier that evening, Jack had opened his home to anyone and everyone with the desire to celebrate Connie's life. Law enforcement, prosecutors, defense attorneys, teachers, family members, and even the Governor had piled into the Brownstone, enjoying drinks, hors d'oeuvres and anecdotes. Now, the hour was late and the townhouse was devoid of guests.

"You look like hell." Jack prudently pried a half-empty glass of Scotch from Mike's grip. "You have trial tomorrow. You're no good to me with a hangover."

"This…is… all my fault. I pushed and pushed and _pushed_. I went too far. I let jealousy cloud my judgment, and…" His red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes pleaded for cognizance and mercy. "She's gone because of _me_—because of my _thoughtless_ pride."

"You didn't pull the trigger."

"It should have been me." In a mournful trance, Mike held his folded hands to his lips, elbows propped against his knees. Indiscriminate tears splashed across his bruised knuckles, _his_ battle wounds from the fight with Lupo.

"Go home, Mike. Get some rest. I'll call a cab." Jack hoisted himself from the steps and shuffled into the living room. He paused to appraise his picture of Claire on the escritoire, well acquainted with the guilt and bargaining that accompany a terrible loss. He made a short, silent vow to protect Mike from that suffocating abyss and dialed for a taxi.

* * *

><p><em>Office of the Manhattan District Attorney<em>

_One Hogan Place_

_Friday, April 22_

A tri-folded paper hit the antiquarian desk rather brusquely, and Jack looked up from his typewriter. Mike stood before him, an expectant expression twisting his weary countenance. Jack arched his brow. "What's that?"

"My two week's notice."

Jack sighed heavily, taking off his glasses and tossing them aside carelessly. "What would you like me to do with it?"

Mike didn't understand Jack's strategy, but he played along, albeit aggrievedly. "Uh… I believe the proper procedure is to put it in my personnel file and start looking for a replacement, or vice versa."

Obligingly, Jack retrieved the document and scanned it briefly. He then crumpled it unceremoniously and tossed it into the trashcan at his feet.

Mike's eyes widened with dismay at the brazen affront. "I spent most of the morning on that…"

"It's nice to know that the tax payer's dollars are hard at work," Jack stated waggishly. "If you're going to resign, at least do it sincerely and honorably. Don't try to hoodwink me with offensively hollow words. I didn't get to where I am through gullibility."

"You didn't even read the damn thing..." Mike snapped. "Let me paraphrase: my time here has run its course, and there are no further opport-…"

"Cut the crap, Mike! The truth is that it's been six months, and you still can't let her go. You think that you're not strong enough and that running away from the view of her appropriated chair and the memories that flood this office will make everything better. This may be harrowing news to you, but whether you remain here or take up hocking baseball cards on 76th and Columbus, you will _never_ stop thinking about her. You will _never_ heal. And, some day, you will foolishly believe that the worst has subsided. You'll feel a spurious sense of accomplishment and progress, and then, some small, trivial thing—a photograph, a name…a dream—will tear the wounds open. There is no escape. Time assuages _nothing_. The only choice you have is to bury the pain."

Stricken with unsettled emotion, Mike hoarsely countered, "Well, I'm sorry, Jack, but I'm not you. I can't lock _my_ pain away in the bottom drawer of my desk."

A familiar pity diluted any hard feelings that might have stemmed from the cutting remark. "Connie brought a charm to our profession that I never thought possible. I miss her just as much as you, Mike. But, I'm speaking from experience, kid, and I'm telling you: don't make this mistake. Don't throw your career away chasing ghosts. Nothing good will come of it."

Mike's cerulean eyes were wooden with the lassitude of his undoing. He was defeated and broken, and he did not have the strength to win Jack's war of reason. He surrendered. "If I stay, I can't stay _here_."

"I can live with that. I'll look into your options for transfers and get back to you by this afternoon."

* * *

><p><em>Office of the Special Victim's Bureau Chief Michael Cutter<br>_

_100 Centre Street  
><em>

_Tuesday, October 18_

"I'll be honest, Mike, I had my doubts. Cabot said that you'd become a watered down specter of yourself," Detective Olivia Benson leaned against the conference table at the center of the room, "... just another jaded bureaucrat."

"I'm not entirely sure that she's read my job description," he replied shrewdly. "Caution is a prerequisite."

"I'm not so sure. You could've invoked caution and given up on Sarah, but you didn't… You certainly chose the more difficult path."

"What can I say? Old habits die hard. It's always more thrilling to dive into a cluster-…" Mike reconsidered his vulgar choice of words. "…Well, I'll just call it a 'train wreck.'"

"At any rate," Olivia approached his desk, extending her hand to shake his, "thank you."

Mike reciprocated the gesture, and then rocked back in his black leather chair, mindlessly chewing his pen.

"Wow, she's really beautiful," Detective Benson announced. Her non sequitur prompted Mike to furrow his brow in confusion. "The woman…in that picture."

"Oh…" He glanced at chaotic heap of paperwork banished to the corner of the desk. Lying on top was a puckered photograph he had found the day before, while attempting to purge the extraneous clutter that was infesting his cabinets and creeping up the walls like ivy. Frozen in a celluloid suspension, he stood next to former DA Jack McCoy, flanked by a familiar brunette. She was afflicted with laughter, an infectious smile crinkling her nose. It was true. She _was _beautiful, strikingly so. He couldn't help but feel a numb ache in his chest. "Connie was my second-chair when I was in Homicide."

"She must have been quite the distraction."

"Don't let the supermodel stature fool you. She was a damn good ADA—smart, passionate, resourceful, dedicated..." Mike recalled as a transient sadness clouded over his eyes. "She's the reason I took this position. This title and this office give me the power to seek justice for thousands of other victims."

"I'm sorry," Olivia stammered, becoming conscious of the implications of his words. "I didn't mean to-…"

"It's fine," Mike shrugged, tapping his pen against the desk calendar. "It was a long time ago."

"I know what it's like to lose a partner," she pressed further, nervously folding her hands behind her back. "It's definitely a void that cannot be filled."

Mike felt an unwelcome surge of sentiment, and quickly attempted to bridle it. "No offense, Detective, but that part of my life… it's been filed away with all of my other losses, both personal and professional."

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to pry. I… I should be going. Thank you, again, Mike." Olivia excused herself from the office and made her way to the elevator. In the main lobby twelve floors down, the doors slowly opened, and she narrowly missed colliding with a tall, slender woman. Olivia apologized, briefly glancing at the woman's face. Intuition kicked in, and she swiftly turned to intently study the form that was disappearing behind the now closing metal doors. She was positive that she had seen the woman only moments before in the photograph on Mike Cutter's desk.


	17. When the Thunder Calls

_...  
><em>

_Southern District Conference Room_

_One Hogan Place_

_Thursday, November 17_

Mike slouched against the rough red fabric of the padded office chair, impatiently tapping his fingers against the center table. The small conference room was crowded with supervisors from all 18 bureaus, save one or two. Weekly staff meetings were a waste of time as far as he was concerned. Jack (well, his secretary) would've sent out an imperious e-mail. Jamie, on the other hand, was a different species of D.A., all about synergy and feedback. It wouldn't have been so bad, except that she scheduled the powwows right after lunch. Mike yawned and shook his jacket cuff slightly to get a better view of his watch.

At precisely 1:30, a brown-suit-clad Jamie Ross appeared through the door, closing it behind her. The blinds clacked against the glass. She took a seat at the head of the table, opening a binder of notes. "Good afternoon, everyone. As always, thank you for taking the time to be here. I promise, this will be short. Let's see," she shuffled through a few papers, "here, I have the agenda for everyone."

Mike took a copy and passed the stack to his right. The outline was quite detailed, and he briefly closed his eyes to quell the urge to repeatedly plow his head into the table.

"As you can see, I'd really like to focus on some of the issues we have been having as of late with paperwork, of all things. We're not crossing I's and dotting T's, and it's starting to show. CSU had two good collars fall through because of poorly written police reports. I've read the courtroom transcripts, guys, and, these rookie mistakes are embarrassing to say the least. I think we're going to have to get back to the basics here. Therefore, Mike," she nodded in his direction, "I'm putting you in charge of designing an informal, but effective seminar for report writing."

"Me?" He felt a dozen pairs of eyes questioning his resistance. He shifted in his seat and backpedaled. "With all due respect, Jamie, I don't think the guys in Homicide will appreciate being told how to do their jobs."

"Then don't make it sound like that's what we're doing," she replied monotonously. "We'll provide lunch for them; how about that? Moving on…"

Mike felt a heat surface on his cheeks. The deafening pulse of abashment momentarily drew his attention away from Jamie's underwhelming address. As if he didn't have enough on his plate, he was now tasked with teaching detectives how _not_ to mess up a case. He was not looking forward to _that_ conversation with Lieutenant Gibson.

"…Our Money Laundering & Tax Crimes Bureau is backed up. It's expected: the economy has taken a turn for the worse, and people have become desperate. To relieve the current bottleneck, I'm going to be allotting some cases to Major Economic Crimes and Public Integrity. Unless we start working together to meet deadlines and speed due process along, none of us will be 'home for the holidays.'"

The door opened charily, and Jamie paused, briefly glancing up at the source of interruption. She offered a succinct, but approving smile, and Mike turned to see which genius had managed to sneak in late without a scolding. His exterior reaction was subdued and composed—his jaw slackened and his eyes widened almost undetectably. On the inside, however, his reeling mind gave rise to nausea, and his heart threatened to pound wildly out of its cage. What the hell was going on?

"Perfect timing!" Jamie announced as the intruder slinked toward the coat rack, attempting to minimize the distraction. "I'd like to extend a welcome to the newest, and quite veteran, addition to our team. Ms. Rubirosa will be heading Cybercrimes, and, until Sandra gets back, the Public Assistance Fraud Unit."

Mike furtively gaped in disbelief. It appeared that she wasn't a phantom; everyone else could see her too. Connie gave a demure wave and gestured for Jamie to continue with the meeting, almost purposely avoiding Mike's side of the room. In sharp contrast, he could focus on nothing _but_ her. She was a goddess. Her hair was pulled back with a plain clip, strategically placed tendrils framing her prominent cheekbones. Her blue satin blouse accentuated the chocolate hue of her eyes that were subtly lined with black. Her pencil skirt tugged across her hips, tapering just below her knees. She was exactly the same, yet completely different. It was strange. He was not filled with joy and relief by her presence. Aside from confusion and a trace of lust, he felt nothing at all. He turned his attention back to the present, startled by his lack of emotion. His phone vibrated gently in his pocket, signaling a text, and surreptitiously he read the message. It was from ADA Alexandra Cabot.

**Exley is playing hardball. Griscomb won't talk without a deal. I could use some leverage.**

Jamie noted his actions. "Mike?"

He hastily concealed his Blackberry and stuttered, yet again feeling all eyes on him. "Um… there's a situation with a suspect. It's something that I really should handle personally..."

"Will it get you a conviction?"

"Possibly," he fibbed. He needed to get out of the stuffy room and clear his head.

"Very well. You're excused," Jamie sighed, rolling her eyes. Mike made a beeline for the exit, shakily attempting to retrieve the breath he had subconsciously been holding. In the corridor, he quickened his pace, eager to be _any_where else.

Back in the conference room, Connie sequestered his abandoned chair. She relaxed into the abiding warmth, feeling one step closer to reclaiming her stolen past.

* * *

><p><em>Office of Bureau Chief Michael Cutter<em>

_100 Centre Street_

_Friday, Nov 18_

It was 7:30. The sun had set nearly three hours before, yet Mike, Alex, and Detective Benson sat around the center table of the office listening to the voice of Ana Rajic, desperately pleading with the Rom-Baro to help her. A box of tapes had been emptied onto the table, evidence of the grueling effort to find any little piece of hope that Nico Grey might still be alive. The recording stopped abruptly, and Alex switched off the playback machine. "I have more questions than answers. Griscomb gave us nothing."

"Amaro and Rollins are following a lead on Mrs. Rajic's son, right now. At least we have that," Olivia reasoned.

"_I_ have a headache," Mike added, rubbing his eyes. "I think we've done all we can tonight."

Alex and Olivia retrieved their coats and ushered themselves from the office, exchanging "goodnights" and plans to reconvene the next day. Left alone with the hum of the heater and distant sounds of traffic, Mike began the daunting chore of stacking the tapes back in the box and tidying up his files before calling it a night. There was a sharp knock at his door, and assuming that it was Alex returning to air one last complaint, he called out, "It's open."

There was no response, and he turned to find Connie standing timidly in the doorway. In quietude, they surveyed one another for what seemed like an eternity. She was visibly terrified, unaware of the gorgeous halo that the ambient light cast on her alluring figure. He was tired and aged, a hollowed shade of the man she had known. Sensing that words could never express her internal Hell, Connie crossed the room and kissed him. She swaddled him in her arms, afraid to let go. Salted, tear-stained lips searched for acceptance, but he would not surrender. Her hitched breathing was arm against his cheek. "Please, say something."

Slowly, he unhooked her arms from his neck and pushed her away. He moved toward his desk and braced himself against it for support. She followed, wrapping her arms around his chest and resting her head against his back. He was tense, and his words were just as mechanical. "How long… How long have you been here?"

"Here, a week. In Manhattan, a month," she whispered feebly. It sounded terrible and deceitful, but she wanted to explain. She wanted to make things right.

He recoiled, writhing from her grip and moving to the opposite side of his desk. His jaw was clenched and his graying hair descended across his forehead. "I _buried_ you… I _grieved_ over you…"

"I'm sorry," she pleaded. "I'm so sorry, Mike. I wanted to tell you; I begged them. But, everything happened so fast. I couldn't say goodbye. You couldn't know! No one could know!"

"Dr. Rodgers… did the autopsy. You were _dead_." Clarity washed over him. It had been an elaborate and convincing scheme.

Connie wrung her hands together, resting them against her abdomen. "She had no choice, Mike. This was bigger than any of us. Please, you have to understand. Let me explain!"

"There's no need," he declared icily. "Your coffin may have been empty, but the pain I have felt for the past _year_ is _real_. Those wounds don't just magically go away ."

"What choice did I _have_, Mike? It was either lie, with the hope that some day, I would have a chance to see you again… Or stay and risk being killed, meaning that I would _never _have the chance to see you again." He ignored her argument, blinded with anger. "Mike, _please_… Please understand that I'm barely hanging on, here. Do you have _any _idea of what I've been through? I was torn away in the middle of the night. I've been in exile, forced to assume a false identity and to forget everything I know and love. Mike," her voice cracked with despair, "do you have _any_ idea what it was like to give birth _alone_? I was 45 minutes away from my mother, and I couldn't call her… My parents will never know that little boy. _I _will never know him, because I was forced to give him up. He deserved better than a life of lies. How am I supposed to forgive myself for that? Mike… I'm trying to pick up the pieces. This place, this office… This is my home. Please... I can't lose this, too. _Please_."

Guilt-ridden, but unwilling to relent, Mike refused to meet her tormented eyes. He moved to the window, focusing on the cityscape. "I'm sorry for the agony that you have been through. I really am. But... you are my past, Connie. I have done everything possible to erase the memory of you. I've finally managed to let go and move on. I… I can't go back."

A bitter silence was followed by a thunderous slam of his door. She was gone.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Eeek don't pelt tomatoes at me! I'm sorry... But it would be unrealistic for everything to fall perfectly back into place. Also, as a side note, this took place during the SVU episode "Lost Traveler". And, Lieutenant Gibson is Anita :) She's married now... yay for her and Frank, lol. Okay, guys, only one more chapter! I promise everything will be explained. Thanks for hanging in there!<br>**_


	18. Luctor et Emergo

_**AN: Parting is such sweet sorrow, but that's what epilogues are for! Thank you to everyone for all your lovely reviews and kind words. You've made it such a breeze to keep the M/C 'ship afloat!**_

* * *

><p><em>The Coliseum Bar &amp; Restaurant<em>

_312 W. 58__th_

_Sunday November 20__th_

Mike stared at the cold remnants of his half-eaten burger, the anesthesia of alcohol slowly spreading to his limbs. Self-reflection and misery had quashed his appetite. He'd come so far in the past year—weeks of reclusive and excessive drinking transitioned to debilitating insomnia, followed by temperance and meditation. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. And then _she'd_ showed up, very much alive, sending everything he'd worked so hard to achieve into a complete tailspin. An expanse of sense memories clouded his mind: the feel of her icy coffin; the scent of her perfume on his unwashed pillowcase; the sight of her empty desk; and then, the taste of her tear-stained lips and the sound of her begging for his forgiveness. The Mike of yore, defenses lowered, had wanted to give in to her touch, but his impervious prosecutor façade remained stalwart in the decision to keep salt out of his wounds.

So, here he was, turning to the encompassing sounds of fellow patrons and a football game on television for comfort. He felt a hand on his back and turned to see an aged Jack McCoy standing behind him. Mike tossed his napkin onto the plate and eagerly shook his old friend's hand. "Jack! I didn't think you'd come."

Jack grinned his boyish grin and took a seat on an empty stool to the left. "It's good to see you, Mike."

"How's retirement treating you? Are you keeping busy?"

"You know how it is…" his response was transparent. "Ah, who am I kidding? I'm bored out of my mind. I can't drink, I can't ride—I get winded just walking around the block. I've become _that_ old guy who watches WWII documentaries and pretends to fix things around the house."

"Isn't that what we all aim for?" Mike chuckled, swirling his pint of beer before taking a swig. "You're lucky to be alive, Methuselah."

"Don't think one heart attack will keep me from wiping that smirk off your face." The bartender approached the duo and signaled for Jack's order. "I'll have a club soda, please. Thanks. So, Mike, how are you holding up?"

"I'm great. Work's great—I've got our conviction rate up a whopping 3% since this time last year." He took another embittered sip of his drink.

"You have my congratulations," Jack quipped dryly, "however, I wasn't referring to your job. I heard about what happened."

"You talked to her?"

"She's staying with me until she gets back on her feet."

Mike nearly spit out his ale. "Connie shows up…out of the blue… a _month_ ago… and it doesn't cross your mind to mention _any_ of this to me?"

"She asked me not to say anything, and I'm inclined to respect her wishes," Jack shrugged, further infuriating Mike.

"No… NO. Dammit, Jack, she's not the only one who has a say in this. I'm not going to walk on eggshells, and I'm _not_ going to stay in the fucking dark. What the hell is going on?"

Jack sighed, accepting that the broken man sitting next to him had a valid point. Everything that had happened had diffused through multiple lives, like an epidemic. "Connie was in Witness Protection for 11 months. I know, because… I put her there."

Mike's eyes dimmed with animus. He considered Jack for a moment, and then turned away in disgust. Observing him with caution, Jack continued. "Will you at least hear me out before you punch me in the face?"

"Son of a bitch…" Mike shook his head spitefully.

"I didn't have a choice. I saved her life!" Jack barked.

"Is that what you're telling yourself?" Mike scoffed. "She came into my office, practically wishing that she'd been killed instead. She's _miserable_…"

"And you're some kind of hero? You turned your back on her! _Spurned _her! Any hope she had of returning to her former life was ushered out by your callous dismissal."

"No, that hope disappeared when her coffin went into the ground, Jack… When her parents were standing over the grave marker, sick with anguish… When she agreed to your asinine plan!"

"She's alive because of my 'asinine' plan! Don't be so stubborn, Mike. For weeks, you moped around, praying that she would come back. Your prayer's been answered. Why can't you can't accept it?"

"It's not that black and white. With everything that's happened, we can't just check our baggage at the door and start a life together."

"If you loved her half as much as you claim, you would carry that baggage to the ends of the Earth for her and then chuck it over the edge." Jack sighed heavily. "I told you not to chase ghosts, Mike, because I never thought you'd see her again. Things changed, obviously, and if I were in your place, I'd do whatever it took to make sure I never had to be away from her again."

The spur of emotion dissipated from Mike's throat, and his demeanor changed noticeably. Jack took it as a cue to begin his story. "I contacted a friend at the FBI the week before Connie left… Call it a hunch. They'd been watching the Vella cartel for months."

Realization hit Mike like a stray bullet. He recalled the case from a couple years before involving a drug cartel turf war and brainwashed teenage assassins. They were forced to drop the charges when their witness was terrorized into silence and recantation. Like everyone else, Mike had made the mistake of assuming that the death threats against Connie had disappeared along with their shot at a conviction.

"After you forfeited the Wilshire case, Connie made several ex parte visits to Rafael Alvarez and his parents. She was trying to form an alliance against the kidnapping and indoctrination of boys like Rafa. If I had known, I would've put an end to it before it got so far. Her work was commendable, but extremely reckless and dangerous. Woll was just a messenger, Mike. He owed money to Armando Vella, and thanks to his unfavorable disbarment, he couldn't pay up. He agreed to take the hit on Connie to erase the debt. Unfortunately for him, he botched the job, and the only logical assumption would be that someone else, someone much more skilled, would finish what he started. So, I requested that she be moved to safety."

Mike absorbed the spate of information slowly. A thousand questions surfaced. He ordered another drink, something stronger this time. "How thick does this plot get?"

"Frankly, I think molasses would be easier to navigate." Jack rested his head against his hand, his elbow propped up leisurely on the bar. "While all of this other shit was going on, Woll was apparently witness to a shakedown in the in the rec yard that involved rivals from the Vella and Robles cartels, and in exchange for his testimony against Armando Vella, he was taken in by the feds. Adam Parker? He was a high profile client looking for a free score—addicts will do anything for their drug of choice, including murder. And as for Natalie Tremblay… She was a high-strung, unstable woman willing to do anything to earn the favor of the man she loved."

"Woll?"

Jack nodded, savoring the burning carbonation of his soda. "Koehler was just a passing paramour with a rap sheet, making him the perfect guy to take the fall for everything. But, as fate would have it, Koehler's infidelity sent Natalie over the edge. As far as she was concerned, Connie had stolen everything from her—Woll, her boyfriend, and her shot at being mommy dearest. Someone had to pay."

"Yeah—her," Mike noted.

"The guard at Bayview was only moonlighting as a correctional officer. His full time job was as an informant for Vella. Marcus' visit to Natalie was just that—a visit to an old girlfriend. She was murdered to send the message that no matter where he hid, they would find him."

"How'd they get the secobarbo-…whatever? I mean, why set Connie up? They had plenty of chances to just get rid of her."

"Your guess is as good as mine. Apparently drug trafficking leaves a lot of time for elaborate plotting, stalking, and rummaging through garbage bins in Tribeca."

They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the mounted television screens, but paying no attention to the game. Mike hesitated before seeking closure. "So… what changed? How did Connie end up back in Manhattan?"

"A freak accident of the judicial system," Jack laughed quietly. "Vella was captured in Los Angeles, along with six members of his cabinet. First one to squeal got a deal, and the FBI obtained a list of all known accomplices in exchange for a reduced sentence and the expulsion of a terrorism charge. Woll went back to Attica, and I got in touch with Connie—part of our agreement was that in the unlikely event of the tides turning, she would be allowed to come home."

Mike stared at the wood grain of the bar top. "So… why didn't you tell me? I mean, wasn't I in danger?"

"Yes, but it was a risk I had to take. No hard feelings, Mike, but Connie had another life to think about."

"Christ, Jack," he uttered sadly. "She gave up her child. I can't imagine what she felt."

"She didn't want to raise him in a life that was one lie after another. I remember her sitting in my office a few years back, telling me about how badly she wanted to have a family," Jack recalled, earning a look of surprise from Mike. "For her to have the wherewithal to make such a difficult sacrifice… I must commend her. I only wish I were so strong. She's an amazing woman."

"She is," Mike ceded. "Do you think I've still got a chance?"

"How many times has she forgiven you before?"

"So, I'm up the proverbial creek, then..."

Jack hemmed and hawed, flashing a Delphic smirk. "I'm not so sure. You always manage to find a paddle."

* * *

><p><em>Manhattan Supreme Court<em>

_60 Centre Street_

_Monday, November 21_

The clack of Judge Harper's gavel echoed through Trial Part 18. The Judge, defendant, opposing counsel, clerks, administrative assistants, and spectators departed from each exit, leaving Connie alone in the well. She stacked her files and folders and tucked them into her briefcase. She turned to leave, startled by a presence at the back of the courtroom. Mike stood with his hands tucked into his pockets, dressed in a sharp, dark blue three-piece suit and a red tie. She recognized the neck adornment as one she'd purchased for him for either a birthday or Christmas. She hesitated before continuing toward the large wooden entryway. Mike grimaced as she walked right past him.

"Connie, wait."

She paused with her hand placed firmly against the frosted glass panes nestled into the doors.

"Just let me speak my piece, and then if you still hate me, you can be on your way. I won't follow you." She remained in her stance, annoyed by his arrogance, and he proceeded. "I'm sorry. I'm not going to tell you why or what for; I'm not going to beg for absolution; I'm not even going to mention how empty my life became when you left. I'm not going to do any of that because… I have to believe that we're going to have at _least _another 40 years of dinner dates and quiet nights at home to talk about those things and… make up for any time we've lost. Fate, serendipity, dumb luck—whatever you want to call it—is staring me right in the face, and if I don't seize my chance at a life with depth and meaning and purpose, I'll be an idiot. You're my purpose, Connie. Before you, I didn't know what I wanted… and now, I don't want anything or any_one_ else."

Eyes glazed with unbridled compassion and sentiment, Connie took a few steps toward him. "Your words are moving, as always… but I'm the one who should be sorry. I showed up at your door without even thinking. So, I did some thinking, and I'm not sure that it could ever work between us. Everything's changed _so_ much."

"Pessimist." Connie's heart softened at the pleasant and casual jab, an inside joke between them. It brought her mind back to the comfortable memories of working late in Mike's office, preparing arguments, celebrating wins, and commiserating over losses. Mike closed the distance between them and grasped her hand gently, but assuredly. "Everything _has_ changed, except for what I feel when I look at you."

She gazed at him with admiration and deep affection. "If we do this, Mike… it's not going to be easy."

"I don't know the meaning of the word," he dismissed wryly, studying the bluish circles under her tired eyes and the wrinkles that carved worry into her forehead. Even exhausted and troubled, she still managed to take his breath away.

She detected his scrutiny and became self-conscious. "What? What is it?"

"Nothing. I'm just…enjoying the moment."

"Maybe we should enjoy it somewhere else," Connie squeezed his hand. "There's another trial in 45 minutes."

Shoulders bumping and hands brushing, they strolled out into the bustling Courthouse corridor, together at last.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The final piece will be up tomorrow, if you wish! There's a little curveball in the epilogue, and seeing as my story is complicated enough, I'll leave it up to you guys to decide if you want the twist :)<br>**_


	19. Epilogue

_**Disclaimer: Usually, I'm the most nitpicky person about realism and details. That being said, I'd like to explain why I chose to do the epilogue the way I did. There's something so charming and timeless about the island of Manhattan. The architecture, the people, the taxis, the sounds of the City… they're all amazing and integral parts of fundamental American culture. Maybe in the year 2036, things will have changed completely. Maybe we'll have spaceships and robots… But, for now, I'd like to think that it wouldn't be too different from the way it is here in 2012.**_

* * *

><p><em>25 years later…<em>

_DANY Legal Hiring Unit_

_100 Centre Street_

_Monday, September 8_

"Mr. Case? We're ready for you."

A tall, slim, and striking young man emerged from the row of applicants seated in cushioned metal chairs against a gray wall. He followed the secretary into a large utilitarian room, where a panel of interviewers sat behind an equally practical desk. He felt their eyes watching his every move, and nervously, he tightened his grip on his portfolio. He was instructed to take a seat at the antediluvian wooden table that hovered ominously at the center of the room. Fluorescent lighting emphasized the contrast of his dark hair to his pale complexion.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Case. My name is Lisa Arthur; I'm an Assistant District Attorney, as are my colleagues," she signaled toward the two men sitting, respectively, on each side of her, "Mr. Chan and Mr. Edwards. Are you familiar at all with our hiring process?"

He nodded curtly, flourishing an endearing smile. "I did a little research."

"Good," she smiled in return. "We're just going to ask you a little about yourself and your qualifications… and I see you've given us copies of a writing sample, so we're going to take a look at that as well. Do you have any questions for us?"

"No. I think it's pretty straight forward."

"Alright, then. Let's begin."

* * *

><p><em>Manhattan Supreme Courthouse<em>

_60 Centre Street_

_Wednesday, September 10_

"Lisa, I've got a meeting in 15 minutes. I really don't have time for this, but I'll take a look," Mike brusquely took the file from the insistent ADA's grip. He scanned the contents quickly. The résumé inside was impressive, to say the least: Julian M. Case, Hudson Law School graduate with honors, 4.0 student and top five of his class, a member of several honor societies, undergraduate degree obtained in three years, and extensive volunteer work. Mike turned his attention toward the LSAT transcripts. "Other than the disturbing fact that his kid chose Hudson with a score like 171, what's the problem?"

"Well, his background, Mike," Lisa explained, trotting to keep up with her boss. The celerity of his gate was surprising to her—the guy had to be approaching 70. "The Bar's Character and Fitness Committee had a few issues with him, and frankly, I think they were warranted."

"Clearly they got over them, otherwise I wouldn't be holding his résumé. But, for argument's sake, what kind of issues are we talking about?"

"He was in and out of foster care as a child, and there were a couple of infractions on his record from when he was a teenager. It seems like he's been on the straight and narrow since then, but I don't know if we should take the risk. I've only got one spot open, and three other candidates could easily take his place."

"Why are you here, then?" Mike's patience was stretched to a gossamer width.

"Because…" Lisa stammered, "I really would like to hire him, but I also want to cover my ass in case something goes wrong."

Mike sighed decisively. "Have him come to my office tomorrow, and I'll let you know what I think."

Lisa grinned. "Thanks, Mike!"

* * *

><p><em>Office of Manhattan District Attorney Michael Cutter<em>

_One Hogan Place_

_Thursday, September 11_

Mike stared at his laptop screen, his eyes burning with a plea for reprieve. He pulled off his thin wiry glasses and took a deep breath. A knock at his door reminded him that it was nearly 4:00 in the afternoon. "Come in!"

A diffident figure appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Cutter? Julian Case… You requested to see me?"

Upon taking a second look at the visitor, Mike faltered with a strange sense of déjà vu. He stood and moved gingerly toward the young man, extending his hand. "Right… Mr. Case. Have a seat."

Julian followed the invitation to the couch, his youth accentuated by a boyish haircut and an athletic sway to his movements. Mike pulled an armchair over to the sofa and sat across from the prospective hire. "I've heard a lot about you. Your reputation and aptitude certainly precede you."

"Thank you, Mr. Cutter," Julian flattened his tie self-consciously. He cleared this throat and cast his gaze to the floor, where he nervously tapped his foot. "I'm going to take a guess that a one-on-one interview with the DA for an entry-level position isn't common practice around here."

"You'd be right," Mike smirked. Sapient blue eyes met bright blue eyes, locking in an uncomfortable moment of cognition and scrutiny. Mike couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity. "I'm sorry, have we met before? I've done a few lectures at Hudson…"

"I don't think so… I'd remember. This is probably going to sound awkward and slightly sycophantic, but I studied a lot of your work in my third year Psychology of Litigation class. I'm a big fan."

Mike shifted with surprise. "Is that so? Well, I'd only suspect sycophancy if you were to start reciting the Yankees' roster from the 1996 World Series."

"That… I can't do," Julian laughed. "I'd tell you that I'm a soccer fan, except I think you might kick me out of your office."

"On your first strike? I'm tough, but I'm not cruel. So, Julian, tell me about yourself…"

* * *

><p><em>The Cutter Residence<em>

_Brooklyn, NY_

_Saturday, October 4_

A leaning tower of cluttered boxes threatened to plow into Mike as he navigated through the garage. 18-year-old Andrea, his youngest, followed closely behind him. "Dad, be careful."

He shot her an I'm-not-dead-yet look, before shining a flashlight across the gritty, cob-web laden surfaces. "If you find one that says 'Apartment', let me know."

She nodded submissively and began scouring the pyramid. "Jeez, whoever you guys hired to help you move had really terrible handwriting."

"_I_ labeled the boxes," Mike replied sharply. "Your mother was pregnant with _you_ at the time. You know, I haven't mailed your tuition check for next semester, yet. Keep it up, and you're going to a city college for the next five years."

"That's not funny!" she exclaimed.

"Relax, Drea. I started out at a city college."

"That's _so_ comforting. Here, I found it." Andrea moved two small boxes to free up a larger one.

Mike wiped the thick layer of dust from the top and unfolded the flaps. A synchronized ballet of particles floated all around them in the dim light of the overhead lamp. He handed the flashlight to his daughter and began rummaging through the box. He spotted a neatly folded burgundy jacquard tablecloth near the bottom and fished it out.

"That's _it_? _That's _the pièce de résistance that mom was talking about?"

"You know how she is about entertaining… Just take it to her—and don't say anything else." Andrea disappeared back into the house, leaving Mike alone with a cache of memories. Curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to take a brief trip through the land of nostalgia. He picked through the specimens that marked major events: marriage, births, promotions, loves, successes, and failures. His chest tightened when he noticed the worn tome that was Jack's notable report on a police riot from nearly 30 years before. He flipped through the pages and smirked. Old Jack: the crotchety, radical, and compassionate glue that had held the City together. Something—it looked to be a picture—slipped out from the pages and floated to the floor. Mike retrieved the photograph and held it closer to the light.

His blood froze.

A swollen and startled newborn was nestled against the backdrop of an incubator. He studied the image closely, recognizing the handwriting sprawled across the back. _Julian Michael April 5 2011  
><em>

If Mike hadn't recently been given a clean bill of health, he would've thought that the panic he felt was actually a heart attack. It simply wasn't possible. Connie would never keep something like that from him, would she? Maybe it was a coincidence—Greg Koehler had been an average looking, fair-haired, blue-eyed man too. No; Mike had felt that connection to the young man in his office. Had Connie known? She must have. The middle name was Michael. Then again, maybe it was just a form of homage. No, his gut told him that this kid was his blood, just as much as Andrea and Simon and Veronica. But, how was it possible? They hadn't…. no, they _had_. How could he forget? She'd told him that the events of that fateful May night could never happen again, yet they had, in July, after a rough case and a bottle of wine.

His confusion turned to anger. She had seemed so sure that the child was an aberration, the product of a vile act, and even threatened to end the pregnancy. Even more enraging was that he hadn't been able to protect her and keep her from being hauled off to another life and social security number. If only he had been there; maybe he could have convinced her to change her mind… The rational side that loved Connie unconditionally swooped in and argued that maybe she hadn't been sure. Maybe she'd made the grueling decision that he couldn't make. And, who was he to tell her that her feelings and choices were wrong? Even more clear was the fact that they wouldn't have been ready for a child at that point anyway.

He weighed his options carefully. He could go into the house, confront Connie, and risk destroying the family that he _had_. Or, he could put the picture back in its hiding place and forget the family that was never meant to be. What good would it do to dredge up the past—to march down to the Criminal Intake Bureau and announce, "Hey, Julian, I think I'm your father"? It was fortuitous enough that Julian was even in Manhattan, let alone employed at the District Attorney's office. His cavernous thoughts were interrupted.

"Dad, Aunt Isabel's here." He turned to see Simon framed by the light coming through the door. "Is everything okay?"

Mike hesitated, and then tucked the photograph away and placed the heavy book back into the box. He had once promised Connie that bygones would be bygones—for better or for worse. "Yeah… I'll be right there."

* * *

><p><strong><em>~.~.~The End~.~.~<em>**


End file.
